Sinnerman
by the romanov killer
Summary: Duo Maxwell has more secrets than he can handle in this present-day tale about one man's inability to forget a war & the partner he left behind. Amidst government conspiracies, anonymous lovers, & his gunrunning, can the sinnerman escape his sins?
1. genesis

!**WARNING**! This is a Duo Maxwell-centric fanfiction. It contains gratuitously-depicted sexual situations and violence, and probably more plot twists that necessary. The characters are copyrighted to BANDAI and all others responsible for their creation. There are many things that are references to real life, as this is partly a war story. Please feel free to comment and critique any discrepancies the story may have with reality.

« » Marks words spoken in a different language

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**SINNERMAN**

By L. Valensi

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**episode genesis**

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_oh sinnerman, where you gonna run to?  
sinnerman—where you gonna run to?  
where you gonna run to,  
all on that day?_

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«Shit!» cursed a middle-aged man in a snappy Armani business suit, riding in his patent-red Corvette. In his case, it was perfectly acceptable to curse as much as he wanted, given the situation he was in—that is, given that he was being run down Henry Hudson Parkway by three black sedans all firing away at his rear bumper.

«Fuck, shit, fuck, shit, fuck this shit!» He veered violently to the side to avoid a head-on collision with a towering blue cargo truck. «Are there no fucking police in this city?!»

He cringed and grabbed a handful of his hair in frenzy. He cursed once more in a distinctly Middle Eastern language as his passenger door smashed against the SUV of a three-children family at ninety-five miles per hour. With sparks flying all around, he kept pushing forward. He looked back and was momentarily blinded by the light reflecting off the golden grills of the gangsters out to get him (and with the very GPs they'd made a deal to ship to his country, no less).

The black sedans were only feet away from him now. Pushing down on his pedal with all the strength he could muster, he tore away from the SUV, sending the family spinning aside.

Steadily, the bullets began to die down. Still, he could hear wheels grinding on the asphalt behind him. He wound through vehicles, his brain agitated to the point of complete focus; but his concentration was unexpectedly broken by the loud ringing of the car's phoning system.

The caller ID responded by blinking "unknown" several times. His vision shifted to and from the bright lights of New York's Upper West Side to the neon fluorescence of the car's touch-screen. His right hand trembled as it pushed the answer key, and a warbled voice streamed into his consciousness.

«Do you want to live to see another day, Rashid?» it said in his Persian tongue, catching him off-guard.

«Who are you? What do you want from me?» roared Rashid, slamming his right hand into the car's stereo system.

«I am the God of Death, Rashid. Remember me?» The voice laughed halfheartedly. «We'll discuss what a stupid decision it was for you to choose those mobster dogs over me after we've saved you from the hounds. But that begs the question. Do you want to live to see another day, Rashid?»

He swerved into the far-left lane and caught sight of the three black sedans still right behind him. Once the sound of ricocheting bullets hit Rashid's eardrum, he found himself pleading for any sort of direction out of his predicament.

«Very well, then; in two minutes take Exit 16 into Fort Tryon Park. I'll be feeding the rest of the directions to your navigational system. Understand that once you get into the city, they'll have back-ups sent to go in after you, meaning more men to escape from. Miss a turn and it's your funeral. I'll see you at the end, if you make it.»

As the exit came up to Rashid's line of sight, everything began to move in slow motion for him. Whether it was the directions from the lifeless robot wired to his car or the two new black sedans chasing him down Broadway for what seemed like ages, Rashid was at a loss for words or even thoughts of his own. All that would play in his head was the distorted, high-pitched voice on the phone and the clanging of the doors of his half-destroyed red rental.

Soon enough, he found himself dodging cars in the dark of night on a bridge. His foot cramped up in pain from the pressure he kept on the acceleration. He could already feel his car craving for more fuel as he watched the needle point closer to "Empty."

The phone began to ring and it was him again—the God of Death, or whatever he called himself. «The last turn is coming up. Drive into the lot behind the red warehouse and into the wide alley. I'll handle things from there.» Rashid nodded obediently, as if the voice could see him and would repay him with kindness for his deference.

But as he pulled into the alleyway, in which the darkness hid an unmistakable dead end from which there was no visible escape, Rashid realized his true fate: that the God of Death only deals in death, not life, and this was his.

Rashid exited his car in utter despair. Once he was out in the open, he could clearly hear the black sedans; could feel the steam from their guns heating the back of his neck and head; could feel the gunsmoke singing his flesh until they felt well compelled to blow the life out of him. And for what was he to die for, he asked himself, for what?

«You corrupt Americans! I come here from my country to give you money in exchange for help against the terrorists and this is what you give me? False hope and death? You animals have no right to be called human!» Rashid fell to his knees and began to weep uncontrollably. «My Uldouz… my sweet little Zarrin… I will never see them again… Because of you pieces of shit!» He screamed and whipped around to face the gangsters with guns, his finger outstretched accusingly. Yet before he could spout out a new line of curses, gunfire blew up all around him from the darkest corners of the alley.

The thunderous gattling sent Rashid flying face-first into the ground. Undiluted shrieking occurred all around Rashid along with the smell of blood and metal. He thought he was already dying and perhaps that was why he couldn't feel anything. All he could do was listen—to gunshots, to voices, to death—and all he could think was that he'd been betrayed by the Americans—which wasn't surprising in the least—and that now, he was dead. Dead as a doornail.

Fortunately for him, he realized that was not the case. As the gunshots and the screams faded to nothing against the backdrop of the Hudson River's slow and tepid sloshing, Rashid regained feeling in his every nerve. Once he found the courage to assure himself of his liveliness, Rashid stood up. He felt his pulse speed up at the sight of the area around him littered with bodies and stained with blood. He observed, disbelieving more than horrified, as the carcasses twitched every so often, wide-eyed and spewing shells from their hole-ridden faces. He looked up to the sky, in awe of what he believed to be the power of the God of Death.

«You really are the God of Death,» He mumbled as he raised his hands to the sky in thankful prayer. An unexpected light touch to his shoulder caused him to yelp pitiably and fall straight on his back. He locked eyes with a lithe young man whose sharp, down-spiking hair left half of his face a mystery. The young man in the crisp butler's uniform bowed respectfully to Rashid.

«Are… are you the God of Death?» said Rashid, his voice trembling with fearful uncertainty.

The youth stood straight and shook his head. «I'm afraid that is incorrect, Mr. Kurama. I'm merely the God of Death's assistant. You may call me Nanashi.»

The youth extended a helping hand to Rashid, which the larger man accepted. However, the young man did not release it once Rashid was upright.

«The God of Death has an offer to make you, Mr. Kurama,» said the butler seriously. «He has prepared a new offer since you so rudely rejected it the first time. The price is quite different this time. But now that you have seen the untrustworthy nature of other arms suppliers, he is certain that you have at least reconsidered your position. So what shall it be, Mr. Kurama?»

Rashid, overwhelmed by the events of the night, began to laugh heartily. He couldn't begin to explain to himself what was the right thing to do, only that he had to come out of this alive. Nanashi stayed put, his remote expression unwavering despite the large Iranian's crazed laughter. Rashid shook Nanashi's smaller hand vigorously.

"What can I say? It is a deal!" said Rashid in his awkward English and heavy Persian accent. He ran hurriedly to the trunk of his car and waved wildly to Nanashi. "I have here the money! Where to put it, Nanashi?"

Nanashi removed a small device from his coat pocket and Rashid watched as warehouse garage opened to reveal a yellow Lamborghini Murciélago with pitch-black windows. «Please place the money into the passenger seat,» requested Nanashi.

Rashid followed his directions happily, skipping over corpses several times in order to stack ten briefcases full of money into the car. As soon as Rashid closed the passenger door, the engine started as if controlled by a ghost. It backed out of the garage and drove away. Rashid, stunned, turned to ask Nanashi about it. He found the butler standing directly beside him, observing the car as it disappeared into the night. Nanashi's arm swung gracefully towards another open door which held within it a limousine.

«Your escape awaits.» said Nanashi as he opened the door the limousine. Rashid looked at him, bewildered.

«Is this a joke?» he asked.

«I'm sorry, Mr. Kurama, I don't quite understand the question,» replied Nanashi. «Please, just get in the car. We will miss your flight back to Tehran if you don't.»

And so, Rashid did. For most of the ride, he napped and snored loudly. When he awoke, he found himself staring at the bridge lights glimmering in the East River as they drove into Queens, entirely exhausted. All he wanted at this point was to get back to his wife and his daughter and to forget he was ever associated with his business.

«Mr. Kurama?» Rashid heard Nanashi say from upfront. He didn't even realize the butler had rolled down the window between them. «Just so you don't forget, the transaction is not over yet. You still owe the God of Death five million and if he doesn't receive it, you won't get your arms nor will you get your money back. Is that understood?»

«Yes, that's clear. I'll make sure my superiors understand it as well.»

«Good. We will be arriving at LaGuardia Airport soon. Please feel free to change into the clothing provided for you in the closet on the side. Your ticket is also located there.»

«Wait!» said Rashid as the window began to rise once more. «You know that my superiors refused to deal with the God of Death because they heard he doesn't make deals in person. It's difficult to trust something or someone you cannot see. You must ask the God of Death forgiveness for that. But you must also give me something of substance to prove to them that the God of Death is a man to be trusted, otherwise I'm still a dead man.»

«Is your life not enough proof for them?» asked Nanashi. «If that's not enough, at least the God of Death has given you the gift of living one more day so that you may be able to say your good-byes to your family.»

«Then tell me, Nanashi, is he really the God of Death?»

«I'm sorry,» replied Nanashi, «I don't quite understand the question.» Suddenly, Nanashi stopped the car and turned to face Rashid, stirring up a fear within the large man with the piercing green of his visible eye. «Have a safe flight, Mr. Kurama.»

**xxx**

"That's him!" yelled some photographer from the sea of hungry paparazzi. All of them began to clamor wildly at the sight of the familiar canary-yellow Murciélago driving into the valet service of the Time Warner Center. They knew the car belonged to none other than their target: the smoldering best friend (or as the tabloids popularly choose to believe, "best-friend-with-benefits") of the modern-day Leonardo DiCaprio himself, the blonde, baby blue-eyed Oscar nominee Quatre Raberba-Winner.

_His_ name was Duo Maxwell and they were out to get him. At least, that was how Duo saw things.

Inside his car, he was still safe from the hyenas waiting outside the Center's main entrance, where he promised to meet Quatre. He knew it was a bad decision from the start, but it had been his idea to give Quatre as much exposure as possible in the first place. Once Quatre's name was out there, he became an A-list star who all the big producers wanted. Quatre saw these events as an opportunity to thank even the lowest of the media hounds, the paparazzi, for helping his career. "It's for my fans," he would say in the paparazzi's defense.

However, that didn't mean Duo had to like it. He handed his keys to the valet with a smile, and made his way down Columbus Circle to the Center's entrance. On his way, he was greeted with his usual crowd: awfully-dressed American tourists with loud mouths and no sense of personal space trying to touch his four-foot braid; Japanese tourists with their cameras permanently attached to their necks; hipster NYU students with too much money squealing for attention by trying to relate to him on superficial levels; and then came the worst, the fat men who snapshot his soul to pieces and sold it for blood money to the Enquirer. As he squeezed past the crowd, he acknowledged them with trademarked gallantry, even replying to their questions of "Who are you wearing?" and "How long have you had your hair?" with a generously broad smile.

"Well, this lovely leather jacket is Ralph Lauren, and my jeans are Gaultier's," said Duo, flashing a sultry smile for the cameras. "And, as you know, I've been growing my hair for nearly ten years now."

"He's like Rapunzel, isn't he?" a sweet, youthful voice piped in from behind Duo. The crowd began to scream "Quatre!" as the smaller, more adorable blonde put his arm around Duo's shoulder. "He's been growing his hair for six years and it's grown in _feet_! David Copperfield should ask him how he does it, don't you all think?"

Quatre winked at Duo, who shot him a brief, unappreciative look before he resumed smiling for the cameras. "Just a bit more, Duo. Enjoy yourself." Quatre muttered through gritted teeth as they posed together.

Quatre spent a few minutes signing photographs, with Duo standing beside him replying to what questions he could catch—most of them were along the same lines: are you dating Quatre, are you friends with benefits, are you available, the kinds of things that the tabloids sold for a living. Jokingly, Duo would respond with vague statements, which just left them hungry for more.

"Okay, everyone! We're going to be late! Thank you for coming, bye-bye now!" Quatre shouted, waving graciously while taking Duo by the arm into the Center's fourth floor, where one of Duo's clients was holding a party for a recent acquisition.

Tonight was a momentous night for many reasons. One of his biggest clients, the limelight's own Dorothy Catalonia, had recently acquired a sculpture that cost her twenty-five million dollars. She could afford it, of course; her father, after all, was the owner of the Catalonia Acquisitions, not to mention hundreds of international resorts. She was the style intelligentsia of her trust-fund baby peers. And in spite of the fact that Duo had turned her down for a date, they remained such good acquaintances that she had turned to him for help on how to acquire the particular piece of art that she was celebrating tonight—and, more importantly, had asked to sign with his company to insure it.

Dorothy was holding an acquisition party at the infamously expensive Masa Restaurant. Upon entering, Quatre's beamed with joy. The young actor swooned over the simple, tangibly Japanese décor, from the wooden furniture, to the red-orange thatch work curtains hanging from the ceilings, to the amber glow of the lights against the windowless walls.

"Oh, Duo, I'm so glad you asked me to come! I've always wanted to eat here but I never had a reason to!" exclaimed Quatre, his hands clutching his heart dramatically.

"You're welcome, Q," said Duo, smirking at Quatre's swooning. "First things first, though, gotta make our rounds before we can get to taking in some of this Masa sake."

Quatre made a face so cute, even Duo couldn't resist smiling. "Fine, fine, let's go. My turn to help, after all," said the blonde.

In an instant, the actor in Quatre was in full bloom: he molded himself into the perfect gentleman the world was privy to in a split second, and it was this gentleman that impressed Duo's clients and all the potential clients present in the venue. Duo thanked god that Quatre had immensely more reserves of patience than he did, for his crowd was a little less willing to praise than Quatre's adoring fans. He was pleasantly surprised to find that, after nearly thirty minutes and despite many comments that ran along the lines of, "_You_ were in that teen movie abomination? Well, I suppose you have to start _somewhere_," Quatre had enjoyed mingling with his clients.

"I'm glad they were honest! I'm a little ashamed of the fact that I spent years just doing teen movies, too. People are never honest with you when you're in the public eye like I am," explained Quatre as Duo led him to the bar, where the chef greeted them humbly. "They're always saying, "Oh, I love you, Quatre!" or "You suck, Quatre!" Nothing really has any substance. Even if I stopped for more than a minute to talk to them, they wouldn't say anything worth noting. Everyone's just too afraid of being who they are. It's awful."

"Ah, well, it's a fact of life, Q," replied Duo, taking a sip of his hot tea. "I mean, you're not exactly 'who you are' with these people are you? It's like that thing Shakespeare wrote."

"Out damn'd spot?" Quatre smiled naively. Duo laughed.

"No, Jessica Simpson," he said. "He once wrote, 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.' Something like that."

"Well that makes _infinitely_ more sense," replied Quatre. They shared a chuckle and observed the small group of New York high society mingling with each other. But little did they know their peace would soon broken by the tinkling of last season Kenneth Cole dress shoes. The clacking belonged to none other that Wufei Chang, Duo's self-appointed "rival" in the art insurance world.

"What a cheap move to make, Maxwell, bringing some pretty-boy actor to snag _my_ potential clients from under my nose," snapped the recognizably acidic voice so like a razorblade's edge to Duo's ears. "But, since it's you, it's kind of expected."

Duo sighed audibly and turned to face his "rival." He was a petite man, but Duo knew better. Whether Wufei was actually trying to play up Asian stereotypes or not, Duo knew that beneath the man's rental tuxedo and ugly sneer, Bruce Lee was waiting to come out and kick a few asses.

Duo had the misfortune of dealing with the Jackie Chan side of Wufei during an exhibition with an open bar. For some reason, he approached Duo and began to verbally abuse him about swimming in his pool and taking all his clients. Duo, out of courtesy, refused to fight back—but that only incensed Wufei more. After the Chinese man deemed Duo "the devil," he tried to kung-fu the living daylights out of him. Luckily, Duo's background as a Marine gave him more than enough experience to subdue even the drunken technique of the inebriated insurance agent. God knows why he chose a career in art over becoming the on-call antagonist in every Jet Li movie ever made, Duo thought at the time.

Quatre spun around to face Wufei, whose angular features, right down to his signature thin ponytail, matched the sharpness of his voice with striking equality. Wufei's demeaning grimace was returned with innocent anger by the blonde actor. "Who the hell are you and where do you get off thinking you can talk to my friend like that?"

Quatre made motions to stand up defensively, but Duo put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to restrain himself. "Don't worry, Quatre, Princess Wufei's just _jealous_ that I landed a multi-million dollar contract with Dorothy faster than he could jack off to your spread in GQ."

"Keep your nightly routines to yourself, Maxwell, or you may end up losing your trophy boy once he finds out all your dirty intentions,"

"Who says I'd mind?" Quatre fired back, unable to help himself from coming to Duo's defense. Both of the men gave the actor a half-amused, half-perplexed look before turning their attention to each other again.

"Careful, Wufei, he _looks_ nice, but he'll bite if you keep bitching."

But before Wufei could continue the playful, yet oddly harsh, exchange, a broad-shouldered Adonis in a striking royal blue tuxedo whisked Wufei by hand to his side. The man towered over Wufei by at least a foot and a half, and could probably fit two of the svelte Chinese man into his muscular frame.

"Monsieur Chang!" greeted Treize Khushrenada, one of Wufei's biggest clients. "I'm so happy you have come to join me!" It had been a great loss of Duo's. Treize seemed to have a strange "thing" for Wufei that had slammed the opportunity's door in Duo's face. He was a Forbes magazine veteran of being one of the richest men alive and yet, here he was, squeezing the life out of a small Chinese man right before their very eyes—hell, in front of many of New York City's elite.

"Of course I came," gasped Wufei, trying with difficulty to remove himself from Treize's clutch. "It—It's an honor to have been invited by you, Mr. Khushrenada,"

"Didn't I tell you to call me Treize? Anyway, our table's over there. Oh, I'm so glad you're here! I was bored to tears…" And with that, Duo and Quatre were left giggling at the sight of one Wufei Chang being dragged across the restaurant to suffer the indignity of being Treize Khushrenada's plaything for the night.

"That was so much fun, Duo!" exclaimed Quatre. "How come I've never run into him before? I've been to so many exhibits with you."

"He and I try not to swim in the same pool, if you know what I mean," He left Quatre with a confused look as Dorothy Catalonia captured everyone's attention with the ringing of a spoon against her glass.

"Thank you, my dear friends, for joining me this wonderful, wonderful night!" said Dorothy. "I know everyone is waiting for Chef Masa's delicious meal, but I just wanted to share with you all my happiness at my recent acquisition of Takashi Murakami's beloved work, "My Lonesome Cowboy," a piece of art I have had my eye on for several years. It took great pains to secure this deal, and a _lot_ of money, but it was worth every penny. So, everyone, enjoy your dinner and please feel free to view the sculpture and remember to visit it at the Catalonia House, along with other beautiful works I've acquired!"

"So this must be some sculpture for her to have spent twenty-something million on it, right Duo?" asked Quatre, cheeks already rosy from the sake. Duo's brow peaked.

"You mean you didn't even look it up?" he asked the blonde, who was giggling nonsensically.

"Nope!" Quatre sighed. "Forgot. Sorry."

"Well, you're about to see," Duo pointed to Dorothy, who was gracefully unveiling from under a red tarp the life-size sculpture of a typical blonde Japanese animation male—except he was stark naked and holding a jet-stream of semen shaped as a lasso, and all with a big smile on his face.

Quatre's jaw dropped. He yelped and covered his eyes with a napkin, forcing Duo to act as a cover for the young man cowering from Takashi Murakami's statement about the emptiness of his culture's consumerism. He smiled politely to everyone looking their way and told them Quatre had "burned himself on some sake." They nodded understandingly and returned to their dinner.

"Poor baby," said Duo, patting Quatre's head and angling the blonde's line of sight away from the lonesome cowboy as the waiters began to serve dinner.

As the first hour of dinner came and went and they were finally afforded a small break, Duo excused himself from Quatre's side. He approached Dorothy's side and took up her hand to his lips in so swift and charming a motion that all at her table paused to observe.

One of Dorothy's aunts, also a fellow art collector, eyed Duo suggestively. "My, Dorothy, do introduce this handsome devil of a stranger won't you?"

Dorothy blushed, stood up, and introduced him. "Forgive me, everyone, this is Duo Maxwell. I am signing up with his company to ensure my dear cowboy is well-tended to in all ways. Excuse us while we finalize the arrangements." Duo nodded politely to her guests (even giving a requisite wink to Dorothy's flustered aunt). When he passed Treize's table, he managed to throw the scowling Wufei a smarmy, I-totally-fucking-beat-you grin.

"Are you enjoying your dinner?" asked Dorothy as she signed the papers in front of him (a formality).

"Of course, Ms. Catalonia; I'm honored you chose the dinner to finalize the deal. I'm really glad I could help you acquire this guy here," he said, motioning to the sculpture beside them.

"Yes, I was so happy to know you shared similar tastes in art!" she exclaimed as she returned the papers into the portfolio and handed it to Duo. "Lovers of modern art are truly few and far between. Everyone's so stuck in the past—I only look towards the future."

"Well, not many people can be as avant-garde as you, Ms. Catalonia. People love the comfort of tradition. If they've always said Picasso's great art, they will continue to say it and praise it because they're comfortable with it, even if it's just some little sketch he peed out one day."

"I agree completely!" the socialite replied, clapping her hands together. "Anyway, I shouldn't take you away from your date. Let's shake hands on this and enjoy the rest of the night."

"It's been wonderful," said Duo as they shook hands decisively. Duo returned to his seat beside Quatre, who was hungrily eyeing whatever the chef was preparing behind the bar.

"Good lord, didn't you even eat today?" said Duo as he slid back into his braided bamboo stool. Quatre, in one graceful motion, snapped up the last of his blowfish sashimi before turning to Duo with a look of ecstasy.

"I could eat forever here!" he said, flashing Chef Masa a brilliant, intoxicated grin. "You can do no wrong with me, Chef!"

"He can hold his alcohol very well, ne?" said the chef to Duo with a knowing smile.

"Oh, yes, definitely," answered Duo with a wink. "He's half Irish, don't you know."

The chef replied with a hearty laugh, to which Quatre responded, mouth half-full with sushi, "'Ey… are you being sarcastic-or-whatnot? 'Cause I can hold my alcohol real good… I'm half Irish, don't you know! You should know… I… said so in Tiger Beat… mmm, toro maki…"

Duo shook his head and rubbed Quatre's back as he called for a waiter to remove the sake from their bar and provide him with hot tea. "Yeah, yeah, eat mine, it'll help you sober up," said Duo to the giggling blonde. "You probably had this all planned, didn't you?"

"Mebbe," gurgled Quatre as he happily chewed his food.

"Fatso," joked Duo.

**xxx**

The celebration's end found Quatre clinging to Duo's arm for support with Duo attempting to convince everyone he wasn't dead yet. As the guests began to thin around them in the restaurant, Duo felt the vibration of his phone in his jacket pocket.

"Are you here yet?" asked Duo, groaning slightly as Quatre's chair tipped forward and forced all the blonde's weight on his arm. "Did you bring the black car?"

"Yes, sir. Go down and I'll be there waiting for you, sir." curtly replied the young butler.

"You better be or you're fired," muttered Duo as he slid his arm under Quatre's to prop him up. Realizing what a travesty it was to be found grunting and dragging a movie star out into New York City, he slapped Quatre conscious.

"Hey, Mel Gibson, snap out of it!" he hissed. "Come on, let's get you home."

Quatre groaned and was dizzily led out of the restaurant. Duo asked the frantic fans who recognized him to keep their distance as they made their way out the door and towards Duo's young butler, who was standing primly next to a limousine, half his face hidden behind thick, hazelnut hair.

"I need you to give Mr. Winner here a ride home," ordered Duo. The young man nodded and opened the car door. Duo was about to put Quatre into the car when Quatre stumbled out of Duo's grip and into the butler's arms. This caused the butler to look at Duo expectantly, who merely shrugged. "He's your problem, now. I have some things I need to take care of, so make sure he gets home."

When he realized whose arms he was in, Quatre blushed furiously and separated himself from the butler as quickly as he could. He began to laugh, twice as red as before from embarrassment. "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry… Trowa," he mumbled weakly. "I should… I can't trouble you anymore, Duo, so, I'm just going to take a cab…"

Almost instantaneously, Trowa was behind Quatre. "Forgive me, Mr. Winner, but it's my duty to follow my master's orders," explained Trowa as he forcibly escorted the actor into the limousine. Quatre complied, sheepishly smiling back at Duo as Trowa closed the door.

"Tro," called Duo as the butler made his way to the driver's side. "Everything alright?"

"Right as rain, sir,"

"Good," said Duo as he handed Trowa a ticket stub, "Make sure to come back for Lightning when you're finished."

"Yes, sir," he replied. And then the two were gone like ghosts into Midtown traffic.

From where he was standing, Duo could already hear the whispers growing into proclamations of "It really was Quatre!" But before they could claw at him for information, he'd already flagged down a cab and had slid comfortably into the squeaky leather seats.

"177th and Amsterdam," directed Duo to the cabbie, who was busily talking to his friend on his hands-free phone. The ride was quiet except for the chattering of the cabbie and the soft Senegalese music playing in the background. Duo sat still for most of the ride in deep contemplation.

Thirty minutes passed before they arrived at Duo's destination. He gave the man a fifty and parted without asking for change. He headed down various streets with brisk steps, shoulders hunched, like a criminal on the run. It was far from the actual location of his drop-off, about fifteen minutes in haste towards the Hudson.

His actual destination was a humble little wooden church hidden by a grove of untended bushes. He made his way to its entrance, fingers trembling inside his pockets. The old, white-washed double doors creaked open to reveal five pews in faded mahogany and statues of saints on mismatched podiums. There was the altar of the priest in the middle lit up by several candles, with a large crucifix hanging behind it. Next to the altar was an uncomfortably small confessional.

Duo was calmed by the fact that he was alone. He entered the wooden box (which was more like a coffin than a confessional). Once seated, he awaited the familiar entrance of his priest: a rush of cloth and silence. He smiled inwardly and said, "In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit—Amen."

"May the Lord bless you and keep you," said the priest, whose voice was younger than his words. "Good evening, Duo."

"Good evening, Father. Thank you for meeting me here tonight."

"It is by the word of God that we are brought together this night, as it is with all nights,"

"Thank God, then," joked Duo—a joke which he quickly regretted. But the young priest behind the opaque screen laughed, which eased his nerves. "Well… I supposed we should get started, huh?"

"That is for you to decide, Duo."

"Oh—right. Well," Duo took a deep breath before continuing. "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," said Duo. "It has been a week since I last confessed."

"I know, Duo. No need for such strict formalities all the time."

"Sorry—this is all still very new to me so I—"

"I _know_, Duo. Go on."

"Ah—yeah," he stammered. "Forgive me father, for I have committed a heinous crime tonight. I was involved in the deaths of several men."

"And why did these men have to die?"

"I was protecting a friend, father. They were going to kill him and I had to protect him from them."

"And did these men truly have to die in order for you to save your friend?"

"Father, it was the only thing I could think of at the time. They had backed us into a corner from which we couldn't escape."

"Duo, it is a mortal sin you have committed," said the priest, who followed with an audible sigh. "Yet _another_ sin committed protecting yet _another_ friend."

"My business is dangerous father," replied Duo honestly. "I honestly try to keep the death to a minimum, but they really give me no choice sometimes."

"Is that all you have to confess, Duo?"

"No," said Duo. He sat there fidgeting with his fingers, but he could hear the priest getting impatient. "You know the friend of mine that I saved?"

"Yes, Duo,"

"I overcharged him a little bit. I was angry that he chose to deal with the men who tried to kill him tonight instead of me, so when I saved him I hiked up my prices because I was angry. Is that a sin?"

"Yes, that's a sin, Duo," answered the priest. "But it is truly the least of your worries. Are you not concerned at all what your sins are doing to your soul? To your chances for heavenly forgiveness?"

"Honestly, father?"

"Of course _honestly_, Duo."

"I already know I'm going to hell." A lengthy silence followed.

"That's a rather bold statement to make, Duo," said the priest. "Remember: judge not lest ye be judged."

"Yeah. But it's the judgment of God that sinners go to hell. And I am a man of a great many sins, father, if you couldn't already tell."

"That is true, indeed, Duo, but that is why you are here—to ask for penance; to atone for your sins instead of run from them."

Duo laughed. "I know, father. Just a preemptive strike. Speaking of which, I haven't quite finished."

"There's more?"

"You remember who you're talking to, right?" The priest laughed. "Forgive me, father, for I will sin," continued Duo.

"Are you trying to say you are purposefully sinning against God, Duo?"

"I don't know if it's a real sin," said Duo, "But I'm meeting with someone after my confession, and I don't think God will approve of what we'll do."

The priest paused this time.

He said after a few moments, "Do you love this person, Duo?"

Duo was hesitant to answer. "I don't know what that word means, father."

"Very well, then, Duo," said the priest. "I cannot convince you to give up your life, nor can I convince you not to become subdued by sinful lust as many of this world do, but please, Duo,"

"Yes, father?"

"Please leave room in your heart for God. He cares a great deal for all lives—even for the life of the sinner."

"Believe me, father—I'm trying."

"I know, Duo," said the priest. "Well, then, let's get on with it, shall we?

"God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Amen," said Duo. The window between them closed and Duo was once again alone in the confessional.

When he squeezed out of the box, he realized that the candles had all been blown out and there was nothing but the river and distant traffic. Duo, already feeling the biting night winds, rubbed his hands together for warmth and made his way back to Broadway.

He wriggled in the cold until an empty cab came and picked him up; this time, a rather noisy Indian man with a flashy headset and Bhangra beats blasting on his radio. "Take me to the Hyphen, will you?" shouted Duo over the music. The cabbie gave him an okay sign and they were off.

While in the cab, Duo took great pains to shove his hair into every available inch in his jacket, preempting a tourist attack like the good Marine he was. Soon enough, Duo was slipping another fifty through the taxi shield and back on the streets. He looked at his watch and half-smiled at his punctuality. He ran across traffic like a bastard. He walked as fast as his chilly feet could carry him into the hotel and up the elevator to his room. Being in big hotels reminded him that if he was discreet enough, he could come in and out without anyone really noticing. Plus, with enough money, you never really had to give them your name—and money was the least of his concerns.

When he arrived at the room, Duo's entire countenance shifted to one of ease. His shoulders released all tension they had when he was sprinting up and down New York and his face was overtaken by a wan smile. He whistled the tune to "Feeling Good" as he freed his egregiously long and winding braid from his leather jacket. He set it down on the foot of the dusty green chaise next to the king-sized bed and turned on the lamp. He fiddled with the bed stand drawer as he whistled his happy tune before picking up the Bible and seating himself in order to read silently.

After about twenty minutes, Duo's eyes shifted from the Gospel of Matthew to the bright light spilling into his room from the floor's hallway. The light was soon overshadowed by the slim, finely-dressed figure of a man whose chiseled, Oriental features were betrayed by the deep-sea blue of his eyes. Upon looking at Duo, it seemed the man's gaze captured him and was elsewhere at the same time. He peered out from under a smooth mat of carefully-styled brown hair that dropped to the nape of his neck, which was covered by a Benetton scarf in a dark palette.

"You're late," noted Duo as he put the Bible on the bed stand and stood up to lead the other into the room.

"Sorry," the blue-eyed man said. "Had a previous engagement. Don't worry, I'll bill you on a discount..." He didn't meet Duo's stare; he merely remained standing opposite of him, slowly unwinding his scarf from around his neck. As he moved to unbutton his navy velveteen blazer, Duo's hand closed on top of his. His gaze shot up to meet amber glinting off the violet specks in Duo's eyes, which were leaning in dangerously close to his.

"Let me take care of that," said Duo, his voice low and husky like a tiger on the prowl. Both their eyes fluttered shut as Duo eliminated the distance between their mouths, savoring the lust salivating on both their tongues. Duo's hands deftly penetrated through velveteen and cotton to wander through his sea of taut, heated skin and muscle.

He kissed back vociferously and pushed Duo's body against the foot of the bed. Their tongues and teeth clashed as Duo wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled their bodies down to lay on top of the white, heaven-soft comforter. Duo led him down to rest on his side, breaking their kiss, and proceeded to ravenously turn his mouth's attention to the smooth, tender skin of his neck, which tasted like soap and expensive cologne. He moaned receptively, throat thick with wanton pressure from Duo's lips, as the rest of his clothing was removed.

He was completely vulnerable to Duo's nimble, passionate touches. Duo brought his leg over to his other side and straddled him, swiveling his hips as he sat on top of his lover, inciting both pain and pleasure. He shot up and began unzipping Duo's jeans, leaving Duo to work on his shirt. As he slid the patented black boxer-briefs over Duo's divinely-carved hip flexors, he looked up to find Duo staring down at him with a look that made him oddly hot and bothered. It was a gaze not only full of eroticism but also seemed to hold an unparalleled admiration for what they were looking at—in this case, down at him.

He made a motion to take in Duo's head, but the other man pushed him to lie down on his back. Duo nudged his arms to rest outstretched against the headboard as he resumed his string of hard kisses and playful bites. His body arched for more and his voice unintelligibly called for Duo to take care of him. He could feel the blood wanting to burst out of his hardened member as Duo's fingers tickled the inside of his thigh with his cold fingers. He bucked his hips and hissed Duo's name in frustration.

Almost immediately, his brain was set on fire by the soft wetness that seemed to overcome his entire lower body. His hands gripped the pillow as Duo's tongue tickled against his member's every sentient nerve; the friction against Duo's mouth was so _good_ that he could hardly believe this wasn't the first time Duo had given him head. His throat tightened up once more when he felt Duo's cold, wet fingertips leave the inside of his thighs and move towards no man's land, where they prodded him gingerly, as if he were a virgin. He groaned lightly and bucked his hips against Duo's mouth, causing him to stop his actions. Duo smiled gently as he slid up to meet the blue-eyed man face to face. He could smell his own musk on Duo's lips, turning himself on more than he anticipated.

"Don't be in such a hurry," murmured Duo into the nape of his neck. "The night's only beginning."

"Don't treat me like some fucking china doll, Maxwell," said the blue-eyed man sharply. "If you're going to give it to me, give it to me _hard_. I don't want this fucking pansy. I want a fucking _soldier_."

"Oh?" replied Duo, eyes blazing with intensity in response to his lover's insulting demand for him to be a "soldier." Duo bent down and let his mouth do the talking—his lover's neck was being buried his neck in violent game of kiss-and-suck that made him gasp for air. Duo relentlessly shoved back his lover's legs and threw a pillow on top of his face to muffle his oncoming scream. Duo, his spirit inflamed, split him open in one, furious motion, which continued in rough, feverish strokes. It was like making love to a faceless man for Duo as his lover bit down helplessly on the pillow, unable to prevent the sounds from escaping his raw throat.

Duo removed the pillow from his face in order to look at him, all of him. His pace gradually weaned to a mechanical gentleness that allowed both of them to breathe. His lover's face was wet and red, biting back pain or pleasure or both, eyes half-lidded from too-much or not-enough. Duo leaned down closer and shut his eyes tightly, breathing deeply into his lover's shoulder.

_His mouth—his hair—his eyes—everything,_ thought Duo, _It reminds me so much of you… Heero…_

**xxx**

"Hey!" greeted Duo as he approached a young man with a book in hand and leaning against a row of washing machines. Duo waved a hand in front of the boy and tapped him on the shoulder in an effort to get his attention. "Yoo-hoo? Is this the end of the line?" he asked, but received no answer. Feeling rowdy from the adrenaline of the first night at boot camp, Duo's sense of personal space was limited at the moment; he gave no second thought to grabbing the other guy's shoulder and 'shaking a little bit of sense' into him.

Like a flash of lightning, the other boy reflexively ducked from Duo's grip and shoved him backwards. Duo was about to spew a line of inappropriate obscenities when he recognized a drill instructor coming down from the front of the line.

"Now what the hell is going on here?" he asked, pulling the blue-eyed boy back and extending a warning arm to Duo. "What the hell kind of Marine reads when he's in line for a fuckin' haircut? Who do you think you are, son?"

He snatched the Bible from the boy's hands and was about to throw it into the trash can—until he saw "Bible" threaded across the worn leather cover. He paused, turned around, and stuffed the book down the boy's fatigues. "You wanna be a Marine, kid, you keep God in your heart, not in your hands," said the officer.

Behind them, Duo was snickering obnoxiously at the other boy's misfortune. Sergeant Valder Farkill, as it said on his nametag, raised a brow upon seeing him—actually, upon seeing his waist-length ponytail—and made Duo freeze up instantly.

"Scrawny little shit like you made it this far?" Farkill grabbed him by his ponytail and spun him around to face the roomful of other recruits. He snapped off the rubber band holding Duo's hair together and freed his thick, brown mane. "Hey boys, who the hell do we got here?"

"That would be Jessica Alba, sir!" joked a recruit in the back, causing small pockets of laughter to occur all around Duo. Duo rolled his eyes and would have nonchalantly brushed the situation off, but the officer was holding him firmly by the collar.

"Adriana Lima, sir!" shouted another. The laughter grew as the recruits traded knowledge of hot, long-haired brunettes all around Duo.

"I think he's trying to be Miley Stewart, sir!" shouted a young man with a soft southern drawl. Suddenly, the laughter switched into a confused silence among the men. Duo, though his face was red with embarrassment, stared at Otto with the same "what-the-fuck" expression.

"Who the holy fuck is Miley fuckin' Stewart, Otto?" asked Farkill loudly.

It was Otto's turn to turn beet red. "Uh… H-Hannah Mont… Montana, sir," he stammered incoherently. The name instantly made the sergeant smile.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite hear you. _Who_ _the_ _fuck_ _is_ _Miley_ _fuckin'_ _Stewart_?"

Otto bolted upwards into a position of attention, answering in a desperate scream, "MILEY STEWART IS THE ALTER EGO OF POP SUPERSTAR HANNAH MONTANA, SIR!"

The whole laundry room full of recruits laughed insanely around Otto, who was humiliated beyond belief. Farkill approached him and patted him on the shoulder. "At ease, son. Don't worry, we got a don't-ask-don't-tell policy, and I ain't askin'. Now the rest of you better shut the fuck up and sit still as we proceed to fucking buzz the fuckin' suburbia out of your entire shit beings." With those inspiring words, Farkill left the area and Otto was greeted by more reconciliatory pats on the back.

Duo turned back to face the front of the line and met the brown-haired boy's still-blank expression. His brows knit together quizzically. "What?" he asked, running the back of his hand under his nose. "Do I got something on my face?"

The other then mumbled something before his eyes became downcast, which made Duo's heart unexpectedly skip a beat.

"Sorry, man, I couldn't hear you. What?" he asked again, leaning forward.

"Forget it," said the boy as he quickly spun around away from him. Duo caught his shoulder and forced him to face him.

"No, ask me," he said almost too eagerly. "I'm not like you, you know, I'm a friendly guy. If you've got a question I can answer, I'll answer."

"Who's Hannah Montana?" the boy asked, seriously. Duo paused, blinking airily at him, and became embroiled in a daydream. _Is this guy joking?_ He stared vacantly at the blue-eyed boy, who was steadily growing angrier. Duo mentally slapped himself for thinking how cute he was instead of answering his question, but it was too late. By the time he'd got his sense back, the other boy had already gone ahead to get his hair cut.

He groaned, disappointed, and pitied himself inwardly until he remembered something of great importance.

"Heero Yuy," he said, pleasantly recalling the name he'd seen on the boy's backpack. "That's a strange name…"

**xxx**

"Heero…" murmured Duo tightly as he felt his mind burn white and his body tense up in response to a long-awaited climax. He slowed to a stop on top of his lover, the man with Heero's face, and separated from him. The air conditioning of the hotel room felt like icicles stabbing at his sticky, wet chest. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with a cold, angry stare—looking too much like Heero than he would have liked.

"I've told you not to call me that." The man beneath him said, noticeably irritated. "Well? Are you done?"

"Sorry,"

Duo sighed heavily and rolled off him, getting up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. When the smell of smoke hit his nose, he turned around and shook his head at the other man. He stood up and made his way to the bathroom.

"The money's in my jacket," he said as he turned on the bathroom light. "And thanks for meeting me tonight." He shut the door between them before the other could reply.

He slid the glass shower door open and ran the water. While he waited for it to warm up, he took a long, hard look at himself in the mirror and found that he didn't like the man looking back at him. In the mirror was a man that he hadn't known for years—a man that was for the sake of being; a man whose existence flourished day after day without reason.

If there was really a God, thought Duo, then why am I still here?

He stepped into a stream of scalding hot water with these thoughts in his head, drowning them out with the splashing of water against his skin. In their place, a cherished memory played out like an old film dug up from Duo's chest of broken hopes.

**xxx**

Duo grimaced as his hand fell upon hard, unflinching fuzz instead of hair. He didn't even bother to look at himself in the mirror after the fact, not even as he was brushing his teeth in their shitty bathroom, because he knew he was going to hate himself. Being only sixteen years old, Duo was maturely-built enough to pass off as 18. Without his hair and because of the baby fat still pudging in his face, his look betrayed the age he listed.

He exited the stall as fast as he could, his body unable to keep up with the day's excitement. He heard the drill instructor screaming for them to get out, so he, along with all the other recruits, stumbled out of the bathroom naked as the day was bright, and he and the rest of the recruits were deloused in an uncomfortable small room.

They marched out of the room and back into the showers, leaving trails of delousing powder on the floor (oddly enough, Duo had a feeling that they would be responsible for cleaning that up, too). Exhausted, he struggled with what energy he had left to wash himself according to strict instructions. His gaze faltered tiredly from the shower head to the stall beside him, where Heero stood. Duo's eyes lit up accidentally (he liked to believe so, anyway) when he saw the other man intently focused on washing himself the way the Corps wanted him to.

Duo, once he finally realized that he'd been staring for at least a minute (too much for any man to have spent in the situation), turned his attention back to his left underarm. Unable to help himself, Duo peeked again—only to find a much-less attractive recruit in Heero's place. He cursed and forced himself to finish up, running out of the stall in time to see Heero disappear into a crowd of exiting recruits.

_How the fuck did he brush his teeth and dry up so fucking fast?_ He thought, desperately trying to fix himself up with the same panache and speed. Unfortunately, he wasn't so graceful—he could still smell the odor of dried spit in his mouth despite his minty toothpaste and he'd even managed to cut himself while shaving, which he didn't notice until he spotted a bloody speck on the collar of his newly-issued fatigues.

Swimming in his oversized uniform, he marched towards the footwear station to claim himself a pair of boots, keeping a sleepy eye out for the elusive Heero Yuy. He felt a little like Steve Irwin stalking a crocodile, except without all the bombastic narration. They shoved his combats into his hands and he barely even felt the rest of his movements as he straightened himself up and followed the recruits outside.

They walked around for thirty minutes—which, for Duo, was thirty minutes too much. He felt as if he held the weight of the world on his shoulders as they entered a white building and were led up at least four sets of stairs. He didn't even care at that point; his lungs were about to collapse after the first set, and he just beat himself mentally to make it up the rest.

Upon their arrival at barracks, Duo thought his never-ending nightmare was finally over. But then he heard the drill instructor yell, "Pick out a rack and take a good, long beauty nap, ladies, 'cause your personal hell is only beginning."

Duo felt like shooting himself in the head. _What the hell was I thinking, coming here?_ he thought, painfully marching over to the only bunk left. Duo gave a weak "hey" when he got there to address the other recruit. Whoever was above him was probably already asleep, too, because he didn't reply.

The last Duo remembered from that day was that, before he plopped down and his brain shut off, a pair of blue eyes he knew were glaring back at him from the top bunk.

**xxx**

Duo absentmindedly turned off the running water and exited the stall with his memories flitting about in his head. His every memory of Heero Yuy played on as he dried his abnormally long and healthy hair with two towels, and as he stepped out of the bathroom to find that the man who had Heero's face had already left.

Upon seeing his wallet propped on top of his leather jacket, he was jettisoned back into his new reality. He made his way to the edge of the chaise and sat at the foot, clothing himself part by part. After he put on his jacket, the familiar vibration of his cell tickled his side.

"Sir?" said Trowa's familiar baritone.

"I'm here, Trowa. Did you get Lightning home?"

"Yes, sir, she's fine," answered Trowa. "However, I do need to know if you will be home in time for breakfast this morning."

"Morning?" asked Duo, looking at the time on his watch. It was already past four in the morning. "Oh, I see. Yes, I will, Trowa, just make me the usual."

"Sir, if I may?"

"Of course, ask away,"

"Have you finished with this business yet?"

"For now, Trowa," said Duo. "Don't worry so much about it."

"I'm not worried, sir, just suspicious and honest. One more thing before you go,"

"Go on."

"The deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency would like to speak with you tomorrow night. I will see you at home, sir."

"Alright, Trowa, good ni—I mean, morning."

Duo sighed heavily again after the line dropped between them and the dial tone rang in his ear. Duo exited his hotel room and met with the maid he had paid to check him out of the premises. He gave her his card, said "adios," and left the premises.

As he sat in the cab, he couldn't help but feel that every piece of his body was exhausted. He couldn't even bring his eyes to open, despite the jagged driving of the cabbie. He just laid his head back against the stiff leather headrest.

_Welcome to your life, Duo Maxwell,_ he thought sadly. _Today, tomorrow, and the rest of your life. If you're lucky._

**TBC**

!**NOTES**! Well, here's the first and ridiculously long chapter of Sinnerman… beware, because subsequent chapters will probably be as long or longer the dumb way I've set up the plot. As you can see, the story revolves around Duo again, because I can't let go of how much I love him as a character. There will probably be a lot of flashback scenes, as everything in Duo's present is affected by the past. I apologize for the redundancy of the scene in the hotel. It was trying on me not to reveal that Duo's lover is _not_ Heero, but only someone that looks like him. No fear; he has a name, just not for now. The cover I drew has jarhead Heero and "the lover" (first time I ever used Photoshop, so I apologize for the kiddie coloring, hehe).

Interesting side-note, I just watched The Dark Knight and it was to my delight to find that Duo and Bruce drive the same Lamborghini. A beautiful coincidence.

I also have a request: is there anyone reading who is or knows of a beta reader that would like to work with me on this story? I would really appreciate the help because the project is so text-heavy, I miss a _lot_ and I know it.

Anyway, enough rambling. I hope someone out there enjoyed this!

See the Cover! www (dot) theromanovkiller (dot) net (slash) sinnerman (slash) cover1.jpg


	2. exodus

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episode exodus

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_while Jesus is saving, i'm spending all my days  
in the garden-grey pallor of lines across your face  
while people will cheer on the spectacle we've made  
i'm sitting and sculpting menageries of saints_

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

His gloved knuckles tapped impatiently on a table made of dark, exotic wood. Behind him, men and women in uniform black suits meandered busily, as if they were unable to see him sitting across another man, discussing something of great importance.

"They can't see you, Odin. The walls are one-way mirrors." he said, brushing back his long, blonde hair. The man named Odin sat listlessly across from him, fiddling with a white card. The blonde eyed it with interest.

"He was able to strike the deal that night with the Iranian we set up," replied Odin.

Odin gently placed the card on the blonde man's desk.

"Was there any evidence of him being present at the scene?" said the blonde, taking up the card and carefully placing it inside a ziplock bag.

"No, none that I could find. I searched nearly everywhere. Were the police able to find anything?"

"Unfortunately, no. Just a thousand untraceable bullets."

"I am certain that there are two parties that make up the God of Death. It may be that the one we are targeting now is just being used as a front."

At this, the blonde glared icily at Odin. "Are you uncomfortable with an assignment of such a delicate nature, Agent Lowe? We can always replace you if you can't handle it," said the blonde as he examined an open folder, smiling almost cruelly at the information it held inside. "Although, it looks as if you're enjoying it very much. Are you sure you want to surrender so early in?"

Odin's expression remained unchanged. "Just voicing my observations, sir."

"Your role is to follow orders, not have opinions. This isn't Hollywood, Lowe. Remember that the next time you report to me."

"Very well, sir."

"Good. Now that that's settled, then I have more orders for you concerning our plan against the God of Death. Your presence at the meeting will not be needed, but nevertheless I need you to be on watch in order to identify any persons involved."

"Understood, sir."

"Furthermore, you need to familiarize yourself with his tactics so that we will have the upper hand the next time he tries to deal with terrorist organizations from Iran."

"Of course, sir."

"This may be our only chance for an encounter with this man. We cannot let him know that he's been blacklisted or we will never be able to catch him. Are we clear, Agent Lowe?"

"Crystal," replied Odin curtly.

**xxx**

A woman with hair resembling a starless sky waited silently beneath a thick orchard of scarlet oaks. She watched from behind wire-rimmed shades as the sun splashed the sky with the colors of dusk, only to be hidden behind the cold steel body of an unmarked light-sport aircraft. With the wind blowing back her short midnight stems, Agent Lucrezia Noin turned to her partner, Sally Po. Both women observed the miniature plane landing among the oak trees with a certain amount of trepidation; after all, they themselves were tangent agents overseeing the God of Death mission that had started nearly two years ago.

This would mark the first serious encounter they would have with the elusive God of Death. They had a right to be nervous; if this meeting were to go awry—that is, if the God of Death were to realize that their intention was for entrapment—it was likely that the entire operation would end in failure.

From the intelligence they had on the matter, the God of Death had the means and anonymity in the system that would make a complete disappearance feasible. The man—or several men—had absolutely no identity, no paper trail; not a single fingerprint was ever left at any scene. All the witnesses they had interrogated claimed that they never saw his face. Each description of the man who had come in his place was different: sometimes a dark man who spoke perfect Arabic, sometimes a pale man who spoke perfect Russian, sometimes even a slight man who spoke perfect Chinese.

The entity known as the God of Death had a league of vessels that was unpredictable and ultimately undetectable by any records the government had. They were currently relying on mercenary hackers to find a presence of him on the internet, but even that was proving to be difficult. It seemed to them that the God of Death belonged to an underworld of information they had no way of getting their hands on. Things were especially more difficult, considering that the war in the Middle East had taken a turn for the worse despite the long-awaited capture of bin Laden by her superior then, and now, Lieutenant General Zechs Merquise.

_Two years,_ thought Noin, _two years and this is the first time we'll get any concrete evidence on him._ She hugged her arms protectively from the cold in full recognizance of the God of Death's troublesome existence. _Agent after agent, all selected from the best our country has to offer, and yet here we stand with literally nothing on you._

Agent Noin was not easily intimidated, nor was she easily perturbed by her enemies. She'd survived worse than chasing after a gunrunning political assassin, but never one she couldn't see, hear, track, feel—anything. She couldn't fathom how one man could evade every intelligence unit in the country with such panache. She also couldn't understand how easily he would give into his country's demands. Wasn't this the man allegedly responsible for providing arms to American enemies? Wasn't this man responsible for ruining the lives of countless men, her peers, fighting for their lives in a sea of sand and bloodshed?

"Where is he now?" said Noin offhandedly, pulling herself away from the grief her thoughts were causing.

Sally shrugged, removing her sunglasses and pocketing them. "I'll assume he's where he's supposed to be, given that our target is exactly where he arranged to be. I checked in on Zechs and the others a while ago and we're all in place." Sally frowned as the propeller whirred slowly to a stop. "How can this guy have so much money and yet we can't track it?"

"He probably asks for everything in cash, like all good mystery men do,"

"Even men with money trust banks, Noin."

"Yes, well, he doesn't. _And_ speak of the devil… here comes the God of Death, Sally. Stay alive."

"Oh, you're being _funny_ now?" said the tall, husky-voiced Major with a smile. They approached the descending, darkly-dressed figure with measured steps. Both of them were unable to breathe as they watched their target step out aircraft.

Before them stood the God of Death: a young man of no more than twenty-one years, primly dressed in a butler's uniform and a bowler hat, half of his distinctly Eastern European features hidden behind a mat of shiny hazelnut hair. In one gloved hand, he carried a slim, black titanium briefcase.

Both women unwontedly balked at the sight of him.

They were essentially thinking the same thing: this _kid_ is responsible for the armament of thousands of terrorist factions in Iran? After a while, Noin and Sally swallowed back their surprise and approached the still-standing young man in the bowler hat.

"Welcome, Mister…" Noin bit her lip, realizing she hadn't even thought of a proper address. Once the young man's gaze settled on her, Noin's apprehension was suddenly aroused. He gave her a stiff, artificial smile, inflaming her unease even further.

"No need for formalities with me, Agent Noin," said the young man, tipping his hat in greeting to her. "I assume you and Agent Po are going to take me to Lieutenant General Merquise now?"

"That's right. Agent Noin and I will escort you into the premises. Be forewarned that you will have to submit yourself to a superficial inspection for any hazardous material or weaponry," answered Sally sharply, omitting pleasantries altogether

The young man nodded; Noin noticed his expression shift almost seamlessly from cheer to cool vacancy. The two women led him into the protected facility through the entrance hall and to the building's security station. As the young man was patted down by a pair of subordinates, Noin voiced her worries to Sally.

"Is it me, or do you feel as if something's a little off with this guy?" she asked, her brows furrowing. "Like, how is it that he knew our names already?"

"What did you expect, Noin? Vito Corleone?" said Sally. "This is the man who calls himself the God of Death, and for all we know, he very well could be, given that there's no information on him anywhere we search. Even his clients are baffled by him, and they're the closest we've got to actual witnesses."

"You're right." Noin sighed, observing as he shook hands with the uniformed officers and picked up his briefcase. "I just can't shake this paranoia. I feel like he's laughing at us for buying into his charade."

"Somehow I doubt the God of Death is a prankster, Noin," Sally placed her hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Don't get so worked up. Zechs will take care of everything."

The young man, bowler hat and all, moved toward the women with that same odd smile. "Shall we?" Noin and Sally nodded, leading him to the elevator and around a maze of starch-white, fluorescently-lit corridors.

They stopped in front of a set of double doors in a wide hallway. Noin knocked loudly on the door, and a faint voiced instructed her to enter. Sally aided Noin in opening the doors for the young man in the bowler hat, who entered casually into the sparsely decorated office of one Lt. Gen. Merquise.

The man that sat behind the old wooden desk looked as if he was pulled out of a Gentleman's Quarterly advertisement. His long, blonde hair flowed freely about his decorated service uniform. The olive khaki served him well; it not only fit his Olympic build like a glove, but it brought out the stern iciness in his blue eyes. He looked to the trio standing in his doorway and greeted them with a firm smile.

"Welcome, Mister…"

Upon hearing those words, the young man unceremoniously seated himself in front of Merquise, much to Noin's and Sally's chagrin. "As I mentioned previously to your subordinates, there is no need for formalities with me, Lieutenant General," he said.

Zechs gestured for the two officers to close the doors and exit the room, which both women did with haste. Once the doors to the outside world closed, Zechs saw it fit to reply.

"And so it is the same with me. You may call me Zechs, for the sake of ease," he paused and smirked at the expressionless man in front of him. "And you are…"

"Not who you expect," answered the young man quite coolly. "I am the God of Death's intermediary, Nanashi."

"No-name?" asked Zechs rhetorically. "Your name means that you don't have a name?" He couldn't help but laugh a little. Nanashi, however, was not moved to react to his knowledge of the Japanese language. "Isn't this going a little too far to protect your privacy?"

Nanashi smiled at him but didn't reply; instead, he placed the briefcase on Zechs' desk and unlatched it open, revealing a flat-panel computer screen. Zechs gave Nanashi a questioning look; but, instead of a reply from the young man, the screen before him flickered on.

"We are all flawed with idiosyncrasies, Mr. Merquise," said a distorted, high-pitched voice, coming from the screen in the briefcase. "Protecting my privacy to ridiculous degrees happens to be a tic of mine."

Zechs' lips thinned into a straight line, trying surreptitiously to hide his displeasure.

"Is there something bothering you, Mr. Merquise?" asked the God of Death with a noticeable hint of amusement. "Is this form of communication unsatisfactory for you?"

"My apologies, Mr. Death," said Zechs, "But, you see, it's hard for a man of action like myself to deal with something I can't see."

"Actually, I _can't_ see," said the God of Death glibly. "You know, I've realized that lately the world seems to have a problem with not being able to see. But, you see, I'm quite alright with it. But far be it from me to come unprepared for such a request."

Zechs' leaned back into his chair, awaiting the dealer's compliance.The screen flickered from black to painting of a swarthy man covered in ribbons of white sheets holding a sword. Zechs' hopes wilted as he realized he was staring at a painting of Thanatos, the Greek demi-god of Death.

Zechs was not amused in the least. He glared at Nanashi, as if the middleman were acting as a visual feed to his master.

"Sir, I don't believe Mr. Merquise appreciates the painting," said Nanashi to the briefcase.

"Is that so? Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we?"

"Thank you," Zechs gratefully nodded to Nanashi, who politely faded back into the background of the meeting like the statue he was. Zechs waited patiently, assuming that the weapons dealer would finally submit to the demands he had made—unfortunately, Zechs was met only with a rather grotesque image of Anubis.

"This is unbelievable," muttered Zechs under his breath. He leaned in closer to the briefcase, his countenance firm but noticeably seething. "Listen to me carefully, _Mr. Death_. Neither you nor I are here to play these stupid mind games. Now, I have shown you the respect owed to you, and either you show me the same or you can see yourself out the door and find yourself on the blacklist of every country in the free world. Do we understand each other?"

The screen flickered once more—first to black, then finally to a picture of the grim reaper. Zechs lips twitched irately; he looked ready to bare his fangs at the man behind the screen.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Merquise. You seem to have misconceptions about the way business works around here. I only take orders, not _orders_, you understand?" said the God of Death. "For one, _you_ are doing business with _me_. And I do not depend on _you_ for any of my business. In spite of how much you yell and scream, I won't be intimidated by you. If you want something you can see, by all means, go ahead and hire another man for the job. I assure you they won't provide you with the same guarantee of efficiency, affordability, and anonymity that I will."

Zechs sat quietly for a moment, his hands folded across his lap. The air around him stewed in the fumes of his irritation. "Okay, Mr. Death," said Zechs, as composed as he could bring himself to be. "You win this one. You'll have to forgive my rude display of emotion; it's not every day I'm reverted back to child's play."

The God of Death laughed. "I do have that effect on people, don't I? Nanashi will tell you. But compared to the things people say before they die, your indecency was like… like an inaudible whimper."

Knowing fully that the God of Death was taunting him, daring him to regress into adolescence, Zechs exhaled deeply and massaged his temples. "Well, then, Mr. Death," he said, feigning complete ignorance of the dealer's previous statement, "Shall we discuss the arrangements then?"

"Point and shoot, buddy," said the God of Death with a hint of an emotion Zechs could not identify. "I'm listening."

Zechs placed in front of the screen a neat stack of manila envelopes. "Inside these envelopes, you'll find information regarding a counter-terrorist faction in Iran known as White Fang. These men will be your clients."

"So the government really is employing mercenaries with our tax money after all," the God of Death joked. Zechs' lips twitched once more, an acerbic aftertaste of anger still left on his tongue.

"The government of the United States employs what is necessary to win the wars we fight," replied Zechs, "The group known as White Fang is locally respected, as our information will tell you. They were an integral part of bringing down al-Qaeda bases on the Kuwait border."

"And yet our honorable businessmen refuse to sell them arms?" The God of Death scoffed at the notion. "That's rather rude."

"But you won't refuse, right?" said Zechs, placing his hands on the table as if the man behind the screen could see him. "There is little that we know about you, Mr. Death, but one thing we do know is that you are responsible for aiding these counter-terrorist measures all over the world. We almost suspect you to be a soldier of the United States, what with all your honorable, yet illegal, exploits on behalf of the country."

A lengthy silence followed Zechs' comment. Deep below the building's surface, Odin, Noin, and Sally observed them with great anxiety. Noin massaged her temples, uncomfortable with the God of Death's lack of reply.

"Calm down, Noin," said Sally, arms folded. "It's only been twenty seconds. He's not gone."

"Yes, well, a lot is hinging on that stupid comment," said Noin, irritated by Zechs' tactlessness. "I can't even believe he'd risk going that far, letting him know that we're onto his business deals with terrorists. What could he possibly be thinking?"

"Lt. Gen. Merquise says nothing without cause," commented Odin tersely, eyes glued to the three figures under surveillance.

Meanwhile, back in Zechs' office, the God of Death abruptly broke his silence. "Well, what do you know; you do know a lot about me after all. Seems like you have me all figured out," he said. "But you know, Mr. Merquise, sometimes a lot of information is detrimental to you intelligence guys. Pretty soon you won't be able to tell truth from lie."

The God of Death's laughter was more jarring to the ears than Zechs ever remembered gunfire to be. He laughed so carefreely, so cheerfully; it was as if the voice itself was grinning ear to ear because it had won some sort of prize. It sent chills down Noin's spine and even Sally was bothered by the sheer sound of it, precisely because it made them feel as if they were part of a game bigger than the one they had set up. The realization that they were being watched was perhaps the worst feeling an agent of intelligence could ever feel—because it would mean they had lost control of the situation; that the hunter was now the hunted. And it was exactly that sentiment that rang in the laughter of the God of Death.

"We're not so foolish as to be completely in the dark about those we choose to work with," replied Zechs with complete conviction. Noin breathed a sigh of relief as Zechs' reserve. "All my trust in you to do this job well, Mr. Death, if not for patriotism, then for the grand sum of twenty million we are offering. So what shall it be?"

"Well, that all depends on how well Nanashi is escorted from your office back to the plane," answered the God of Death. "Don't bother tracing him. If you do, the deal's off the table. We'll talk when I've seen the papers. _Khoda hafaz_, Lieutenant General."

Almost as if he were controlled by the voice itself, Nanashi stood up the instant the screen turned off and placed the manila envelopes into the briefcase. All observing were stunned by the Nanashi's swiftness; as if the whole meeting had been a dream, Zechs found himself staring at the same exact Nanashi that had entered his office, bowler hat in place and briefcase in hand.

"Shall I show myself out or will Agent Noin and Po be escorting me out?"

"We're not barbarians, Nanashi," Zechs cleared his throat and pretended to contact his two subordinates although he knew full well that they had preemptively made their way back to his office. He replaced the phone on its receiver and signaled Nanashi to seat himself. "Please, take a seat while we wait for the agents to arrive."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Merquise, they are already here," said Nanashi, smiling. "Thank you for your time."

Nanashi opened one set of doors and acknowledged the two women approaching him. They looked back to Zechs, who was undeniably fuming behind his desk. He motioned for them to follow Nanashi, who was briskly heading to the exit.

As soon as the three figures turned the corner down the hall, Odin Lowe sat himself in the seat before Zechs. Zechs, absent of any trace of anger, contemplatively tapped his knuckles on his desk.

"I doubt he suspects anything," said Odin assuredly. "Brevity in departure is his trademark. You did very well. We have a visual of one of his accomplices and a possible voice pattern."

Zechs acknowledged the agent with a brief glance, but he did not immediately reply; he was replaying his interaction with the God of Death in his mind. He hardly even felt Odin's exit, or heard the heavy creaking of his office doors as they closed. Zechs felt only a stinging loneliness as he idly stared outside the window and watched as the God of Death whisked himself away to an undisclosed location which they will likely never find.

_Funny_, thought Zechs, _I already feel like I've known you for years, Mr. Death._

And in observing the plane merge with the night, he saw in his dim reflection the dusty memory of a war that never stopped for him; sparing no second for his desperate search for the bridge to answers hidden beneath rubble and conspiracy.

**xxx**

They were impossible to forget.

From the very first day of basic training, both young men were found by their peers to be otherworldly warriors—as if both were pulled from the battle of Thermopylae and time-warped into the present. They were smaller in comparison to the rest, and everyone could tell that they were younger than what was allowed—yet they never said a word, because they were afraid. They were afraid of the looks in their eyes of the two boys when they held a rifle up to shoot; afraid, because they knew neither had anything to lose. And that, above all, was what made them forces to be reckoned with.

There was no doubt in anybody's mind that Heero Yuy and Duo Maxwell would be among the Corps' fastest rising stars. There was no doubt that, together, they would wreak havoc in the Sand Land with a pair of M40s and a crate of ammunition. There was no doubt that they would be among the survivors of the wreckage that seemed only to get worse as they years progressed.

They replaced a childhood of broken homes, abandonment, and emotional trauma with an adulthood of justified violence and patriotic righteousness. Instead of tears, they sweated to live another day as proud Marines. And they lost full nights of sleep for it; bled for it; trained themselves even as they ate for it. And when they arrived on the never-ending sandy shores of Iraq, they traded all their hopes and dreams for it.

Zechs had heard rumors about the two, but he had never considered himself the type to take favorites. All his men had their merits; they wouldn't be here if they didn't. They could do what he needed them to do—they could point, shoot, and hit their targets. There were things at stake for the men who entered the Marines, especially concerning the Iraq war. They were first in and last out.

But he saw none of it in their eyes. Usually, he could pinpoint what would make a man break, because he'd seen a lot of it. He was quick to spot the souls on the edge of desperation, stuck in the limbo between fear and insanity. Those were the souls that had _something_ to lose. Not these two.

He noticed it from the very first day of their on-site training. Neither man left the other's side unless they absolutely had to, as if they were the twin sons of night arranging a clandestine mass simplification of the American enemy. They trained together, day and night, while they awaited the day they would rain fire upon the enemy. Their mechanical precision was to the point of recklessness; taking even the simplest training maneuvers to their physical maximums.

Zechs knew Yuy to be the more reckless of the two, because he often pulled stunts that could have potentially incapacitated him, such as bloating himself with water and refusing to hydrate for the rest of the day to simulate distressed war conditions. However, Zechs never worried, because it seemed that no matter what Yuy did, Maxwell always had his back. He was there when Yuy finally collapsed from dehydration, five water bottles and a cold compress in hand. He was there every time Yuy needed to cover up his unhealthy addiction to irresponsible activities. And likewise, Yuy was there for him.

The other Marines, just normal boys who needed an alternative direction other than a minimum-wage job at McDonald's, envied their ruthless dedication to their positions. It was these other men who watched them climb the ranks together during only their first deployment, who watched them get sent away together to receive SERE-C training at Naval Air Station Brunswick.

By the time they returned to Fallujah, Zechs had been promoted to First Lieutenant and had become their platoon leader. They were assigned to the same fireteam—and rightly so. Zechs could remember clearly what he saw and felt the day they arrived: paternal pride, if you could believe it. Before, they had almost been men in the bodies of children; now, they _looked_ like the lethal Marines they were. Their eyes were filled with something Zechs could not identify on sight, because it was neither desperation nor emptiness. Their eyes like tigers, burning blue and violet underneath the blazing sun, were undeniably consumed with hunger.

Their recklessness had been chiseled by their time in SERE into perfect cunning rebellion against predictability. But they had not lost an ounce of their own characters: Yuy kept his somber reserve and Maxwell his impish grin. They were two halves of a modern, gun-wielding Achilles, and their remarkable abilities on the field complemented their squad with fearsome grace.

During a rest period on a reconnaissance mission into Karbala, Zechs happened by Maxwell and Yuy's team in conversation with their squad comrades.

"You know y'all are crazy, right?" said a much-developed Otto, whose accent and thick, black glasses were the only remnants of the gentle southern boy Zechs had first met. He shook his head at Maxwell and Yuy, who were cleaning their rifles together on a couple of empty crates. "The last time I came to check on you, y'all were tryin' to kick each other's ass, and I come back from jackin' off for forty minutes, and y'all are still here. Don't you ever have any fun?"

"Come on, Otto, you know these guys," said Mueller, a green-eyed German emigrant in their fireteam. "This shit is what they _do_. They are not here to bide their time until they go home to their moms and girlfriends."

"Speaking of which, maybe you should think about joining us, since you don't have that to go back to either," joked Maxwell as he finished cleaning the barrel. Mueller and another team's assist, Walker, laughed, knowing fully of Otto's "girl problems." Even Yuy smirked a bit.

Otto rolled his eyes. "Hardy har har, Maxwell. I don't see no women in your life either. Maybe if you weren't such a fag, you'da landed one by now, too."

Maxwell mock scoffed at the comment. "Say again, Otto?" He said with notable gravity, simultaneously cocking his rifle and pointing it directly at the southerner. "I didn't quite hear you that time."

Otto's eyes bulged out in fear of the man pointing the gun at him. "Whoa, whoa, hey… you know I'm just jokin', Maxwell," Otto chuckled nervously and put his hands up in surrender, yet after a minute still found himself staring at the threatening tip of Maxwell's rifle.

"Put your gun down, Duo," said Yuy, surprising everyone around him. He finished cleaning his own rifle and looked up to meet Otto's anxious and grateful stare. He smirked. "Otherwise we'll lose the most embarrassing person in this squad."

Maxwell's face contorted into one of amusement and the circle of Marines sputtered with laughter. Otto glared maliciously at all of them, which only fueled their derisive guffawing.

"What the hell is this, gang-up-on-Otto-day?" said Otto accusingly. "I'm the nicest fuckin' guy here and y'all are just out to get me!"

"Don't get your panties all in a wad, Otto," said Walker, wiping sand and tears of hilarity from his eyes. "That's what you get for messing with the terrible two."

Maxwell paused, throwing Walker a questioning look. "The Terrible Two? What the fuck kind of Marvel hash-up is that?" he asked with tinge of sarcasm. "I think we deserve better than the terrible-fucking-two."

"Yeah," snickered Otto, "Y'all should be called the _Fuckin' Terrible Two_ instead."

"I'm sorry, _Hannah Montana_, I don't think anyone asked for your input on this," retorted Maxwell. Otto's face turned red.

"Stop fuckin' callin' me that!"

"Yeah, how about you give me a nickname instead?" said Mueller. "How about _The Flash_? I can throw grenades faster than the hajis can pull their triggers, for sure."

"Can't you be a little more creative, Mueller?" said Walker.

"Sure I can," replied Mueller, "_Texas Ranger_."

They laughed together; however, they stopped once they saw Heero's flat expression. An awkward silence played out before Duo suddenly put his arm around Heero.

"You know what a good name for this guy is?" he said, ruffling Heero's hair. Heero punched him lightly in the stomach to fend him off. "Ow! …Anyway, this guy's name should be _Wing Zero_."

"The fuck is that, Maxwell?" asked Otto, abrasive as ever.

"It's fucking genius, that's what," said Duo. "Look at it this way: a unit is like a body. Mueller, here, is the grenadier. So he's like the arms of the operation."

"That's true. He carries all the heavy arms," said Walker.

"That's it!" said Mueller. "That'll be my name. _Heavy Arms_."

"Alright, already, egomaniac," said Otto. "How 'bout _Texas Ranger _here?"

"But I already like that name for him," said Duo.

"Fuck you, Maxwell, you are changing that fuckin' nickname if I have to shove a rifle up your ass," said Walker.

"Alright, alright. So you're the assist. You're practically the basis of our team because you carry all the ammo. Without you, we're basically screwed if we run out," Duo mused for a little longer. "So you're like our rock."

"Ha!" said Otto. "Walker's about as sturdy as a fuckin' sand dune. Guy's a _wuss_."

"So what about Sandy Rock?" joked Mueller, which was even more amusing given his slight German accent.

"How about Sandrock?" said Duo. "That sound good to you, Walker?"

"Sandrock," mused Walker. "Yeah. I can live with that."

"And finally," continued Duo, "we have Heero, our scout, watching over us like a guardian angel. He's first to rise, last to fall, like a pair of wings. Thus, _Wing Zero_."

"Why the _Zero_?" asked Mueller. "Wings come in pairs."

"Because he's nothing without us," said Duo. "Gotta make that clear."

"Wait, what about you, Maxwell?" asked Walker. "What's your code name?"

"Well, why don't _you _guys enlighten me this time?" said Maxwell with a small smile.

"_Shinigami_," said Yuy out of the blue. "That should be your name." The other Marines stared at him wide-eyed with shock, as if he'd performed some sort of unbelievable magic trick. None of them—not Maxwell, not Zechs himself—could believe that Yuy would break his silence in order to play one of Maxwell's little games.

Zechs picked at his ear, wondering what word it was that he had just heard. It was a foreign language unfamiliar to him; it sounded eastern, but, still stuck in his own personal surprise, he remained unsure. He inched around the edge of the tent, hoping that the audibility would improve.

"_Shi-ni-ga-mi_," said Otto in his drawl. "Now what the hell does that gibberish mean, Yuy?"

"It means _death god_," he said, "Because out of all of us, he takes the most lives."

The rest of his comrades paused at the words, finding them unnatural yet profound, especially coming from Yuy. However, Maxwell smiled deviously, _as if he'd won some sort of prize_.

"That's a little dark," commented Maxwell with an airy shrug after a long silence. "But, it fits me like a glove. Don't you think so, guys?"

Otto snorted. "Please, Maxwell, you're like sunshine on a rainy day," he said. "There ain't nothin' dark 'bout you."

Maxwell chuckled. He threw back his head and clutched at his heart. "Oh, my, Otto," he said with a horrific southern twang. "I do believe you've just made me the happiest little boy this side of Iraqistan."

Otto rose up and took Maxwell in for a well-deserved noogie. The resounding laughter of the men was the only noise that Zechs could hear apart from the whistling of the winds through the high dunes in the surrounding area.

**xxx**

"Mm…" hummed Duo, his eyes fluttering open despite the heavy fatigue clinging to them. With clouded vision, he reached out to a body next to him, praying with all his heart that it wasn't a dream. He wanted the stinging heat of the Middle Eastern sun. But what he wanted most of all was for Heero Yuy to be just another dugout away from him.

"Hee…" he began to say, but when lucidity hit him, the shapely jaw and dark blue eyes shifted just enough for the face across from him not to be Heero.

_It's not Heero_, thought Duo sadly. _It's still him_. He looked back at Duo with those flippant eyes as he buttoned the last button of his pewter grey shirt. When it dawned on him that Duo was indeed awake, he stopped dressing immediately.

"You're awake," he said quietly. _Is he being considerate_? thought Duo. "I'm sorry if I woke you; I was trying my best not to. But I have another appointment to keep, so…" Duo merely gazed at him as if he were stupefied and sleepy at the same time. He ignored Duo's dumbfounded reactionary silence and resumed dressing himself.

After a short moment, Duo said, "What kind of appointment is it?"

He raised a brow at Duo as he paused in the middle of putting on his socks. "Not like this one, if that's what you want to know."

Duo chuckled, rolled over to his side, and put an arm around his waist. Duo didn't let go though he felt the other stiffen at his touch; instead, he nuzzled the small of his back, sending shivers down his lover's spine.

"What kind of business are you in, anyway?" queried Duo. "I'm sorry I never even bothered to ask until now."

"There's a lot of things you haven't bothered to ask about me," he snapped caustically. "Why start asking now?" He attempted to break out of Duo's grip, but the braided man didn't budge.

"Doesn't it make you happy that I want to know?" asked Duo, pulling himself up to meet the other man face to face. Duo leaned in to kiss the crook of his neck and whispered "Like, for instance, what your favorite color is, or what your favorite kind of food is, or more importantly, what's your name?"

"That's… not important… for us… Duo…" hissed the other man as Duo bit sucked on the skin around his clavicle. He tried weakly to push him away, but Duo forcibly remained as close to him as the clothing would allow.

"Maybe it would be less of a game for either of us," said Duo breathlessly into his ear, "if you would just give me your name?"

He laughed corrosively, this time pushing Duo off of him with more gusto. Duo released him and sat back on his elbows, watching his blue-eyed lover wrap his scarf around his neck.

In spite of his own protocol, he looked back at Duo, whose lascivious stare wore down the best of his defenses. The two of them gazed at each other for a while, each expectant of the other.

"If you really _insist_ on calling me something," said his lover with as much levity as he could harness into a sentence, "then call me Tsubasa."

"Tsubasa," said Duo, letting the name roll off his tongue like a long-forgotten song. "What language is that from?" he asked, but there was a certainty in Duo's expression that told Tsubasa he already knew.

"Sorry. You just hit your limit on questions for the night." replied the blue-eyed man as he grabbed his leather messenger purse and made his way toward the door. Tsubasa glanced back at Duo, who was observing him with those alluring, adoring eyes that frightened him. It was as if he was being encased into the very moment in time that Duo's eyes landed on him—as if he was being mistaken for a memory of a man he was not.

But Duo only smiled mischievously back at him, _as if he'd won some sort of prize_; or rather, smiled like Tsubasa had just been granted a prize. It was a prize Duo had been unwilling to give away, to keep locked inside of him. He was beginning to warm up to the notion of giving Tsubasa the benefit of taking Heero's place in his life—or at least, entertaining the thought of "moving on," in his own obsessive way.

Tsubasa left without another word, and Duo merely sat back and watched him walk away. His smile gradually faded as he fought against the haunting call of reminiscence.

In the end, all his efforts were futile; he found himself lying on his bed, eyes closed, traveling back through the dreams that pervaded him each night—the faint smell of roses amidst the fog of tar fumes, the warmth of him pressed against Duo's chest as he sheltered him from harm like a guardian angel…

Try as he did, he couldn't replace the image of Heero Yuy with Tsubasa. Everything about them seemed identical, but still they felt like two vastly different continents separated by Duo's inability to dissociate his past from his present. No matter how much Tsubasa felt like the real thing or reminded him of the real thing, the fact remained that _he wasn't the real thing._

_And you never will be_, he thought. For a moment he felt as if his chest had caved in completely and crushed his heart beneath the ruins of his soul. But he opened his eyes and he was still alive.

**xxx**

Despite his best attempts at a good night's sleep, Duo was unable to get even a wink. The hours seemed to pass quicker than Duo had ever known them to move; by the time he decided to shift positions, it was already dawn.

Duo looked at bright turquoise glow of the numbers on the fifteen-inch screen of his alarm clock. He groaned and rolled off the edge of his California king-sized bed (much too large for such a lonely man, but he could afford it). After lounging around, he decided to finally to divorce himself from the comfort of his thousand-thread-count sheets. He slid into a black silk robe and made his way out of his meagerly-decorated, darkly-colored bedroom.

_Trowa should be back soon, but he probably isn't home yet_, he mused to himself as he waited for the two titanium doors to open up in front of him. He then headed downstairs to make himself breakfast, assuming his butler hadn't yet returned from his business trip.

But as soon as Duo was halfway down the long set of stairs in his inconspicuous Morningside brownstone, Trowa made his way through the iron-clad entrance of their home, bowler hat and all.

"Honey, you're home!" exclaimed Duo as he continued down the stairs. The butler ignored him and proceeded to hang his hat and his pressed black trench onto the coat rack placed conveniently by the door. "I was just about to make breakfast. You hungry, Tro?"

Upon hearing Duo's offer, Trowa raced to the kitchen. In spite of the four-hour flight he had just suffered through, the young man began busying himself with preparing breakfast.

"_Tro-wa_," whined Duo, "I said _I_ was going to make breakfast."

The butler sighed as he whisked a bowl of eggs. "I know, sir. That is why I am making breakfast."

Duo frowned. "Are you trying to imply that I can't cook, Trowa?"

"No, sir, I'm very aware of your ability to cook." replied the butler.

"Good," said Duo, "So let me cook, then." Duo went towards the large, steel stove in the middle of the kitchen. But when he tried to remove the skillet from its hook, Trowa's hand slapped his away.

"Ow!" said Duo. "What was that for!"

"To be quite frank, sir, I would rather be mauled by a pack of rabid lions than allow you back into the kitchen," said the usually-reticent butler. Duo heard a ding and before he knew it, Trowa had handed him a perfectly-toasted slice of bread on a plate.

Duo shrugged and began nibbling on the piece of bread. "Suit yourself," he said, falsely offended. As the butler deftly sautéed an assortment of lean meats and vegetables in a skillet, Duo procured from the other room the black titanium briefcase Trowa had brought back with him. He input the security code and it automatically unlatched before him, revealing a stack of government-issue manila folders and a flat-panel computer screen.

Duo removed from within the envelopes various documents and folders containing information on the counter-terrorist faction introduced to him as "White Fang." The government had provided him with photos of the U.S.'s White Fang liaison, a man named Sogran, and a few of his subordinates. They also provided a list of White Fang's local accomplishments, interviews with citizens, and their role in the anti-al Qaeda movements in Iran's borders.

Trowa plated the omelets for Duo, looking even prettier than he'd ever been served in the finest French restaurants. Duo grinned broadly and hungrily ate the omelet as he continued to review the documents. Trowa shook his head and proceeded to eat his own serving all too primly.

"What do the documents say, sir?" asked Trowa during a pause from eating.

"Nothing important," replied Duo. "but exactly what I expected."

He put the documents aside and began to open another manila envelope. Inside it was a contract of conditions for the deal—which was that Duo would supply armaments to the White Fang faction on behalf of the U.S. Government. More important to note was the confidentiality clause stipulating that if he were to breach it, he would be arrested on grounds of treason.

"Take a look at this, Trowa." Duo handed the papers over to his butler, who properly pushed his plate aside in order to better assess the contents of the contract. Duo happily finished up his meal as the other read each line with great concern. "What do you think?"

"I think this contract is about as trustworthy as the Lieutenant General," he said with conviction. Duo's ears perked up at the mention of the man who was now brokering an entrapment deal with him.

"And how is the devil?" asked Duo with a small smile. "He sounded like a stuffy old man from where I was sitting, which wasn't surprising in the least."

"This was a dangerous move on your part, sir," replied Trowa. "I think Lt. Gen. Merquise knows more than he was letting on that night."

"Zechs is too wrapped up in this war to be bothered with someone like me," said Duo. "And, anyway, he's right. I've been brokering these deals with counter-terrorists in rural areas without protection for as long as I've been out of the war. I'm surprised it even took them this long to approach me with a contract. What would a high-profile military man and the CIA be out to get me for?"

"Perhaps that is because you began by supplying arms to filthy scum after the gun laws were repealed?"

"Correction," said Duo as he gulped down the rest of his orange juice. "filthy scum also responsible for the reconstruction of community buildings and the filtering out of harmful drugs from key areas in the South Bronx."

"Then perhaps it was because you killed terrorists on their personal watch list?"

"Well, I mean, come on, Tro," said Duo, exasperated. "They had it coming."

"Suit yourself, sir," said Trowa, "I advise you only to keep your eyes and ears open. The government takes only its own side for good or bad, and you know that better than I."

"That's precisely why I have you around, Trowa," Duo chuckled and briefly embraced the butler, who attempted to hide his embarrassment with indignance.

"I'm a butler, sir, not a guide dog," muttered Trowa. He shook off his master and began to clean up, but Duo took him by the hand and led him rashly out of the kitchen.

"Leave it to the maid," said Duo, leading him down a set of stairs in to a small subterranean room filled with various cabinets, electronics, and computers (it was, as Duo liked to refer to it, his miniature Batcave). In the darkly lit chamber safely concealed from the humble abode above it, Duo sat Trowa down in front of a large computer screen with a window containing an unopened folder.

"Sir, I hardly think you need my assistance with opening a folder,"

"You're just a big ol' ball of negativity this morning, aren't you?" joked Duo as he massaged Trowa's shoulders tenderly. "Don't worry, Trowa, you're off for the rest of the day as soon as you get this done. I need you to decode this file I retrieved while you were gone. I accidentally stumbled by it during my usually-fruitless investigations. I have a feeling it's something important this time."

Trowa demeanor became grim at his master's instruction. He understood that Duo was, of course, referring to his continuing investigation of ex-partner Heero Yuy's death.

After all the years he had been in Duo's service, he knew one very concrete detail about Duo Maxwell: this man from his past—this Heero Yuy—was the greatest source of pain in his master's life.

Though Duo refused to ever talk about him seriously, Trowa had deduced a long time ago that every choice his master had made since he got out of the war involved this mysterious entity. Nothing that happened after _him_—not his job, his new friends, not even Trowa himself—could fulfill the harrowing emptiness only Trowa was privy to; the emptiness that consumed Duo's every waking moment.

To Trowa, it seemed that his master was merely wading through a dream; that his life had ceased to be his own but was governed by the specter of Heero Yuy. And the worst part for Trowa, who loved Duo dearly, was that even he knew nothing about Heero. He was Duo's most trusted confidant, his only family, his _partner_—and yet, even from the second they first laid eyes on each other, he was doomed to forever be superseded by a ghost.

In spite of it all, Trowa remained loyal and subservient to Duo, trying his best to ease his master's suffering any way he was able. It was the least he could do for the man the man who rescued Trowa from the darkest pits of hell, despite his own inability to save himself.

"Very well, sir," replied Trowa.

With the gentle clacking of the keys in the background, Duo's intense observation of Trowa's technical maneuverings faded slowly into daydream. He was sure he'd fallen asleep standing up, which would no doubt annoy Trowa more than this morning's antics seemed to. He was tired, himself, which was probably why Zechs Merquise's face—the one he knew—kept swinging in and out of Duo's visions. His breath was caught in his throat and he felt as if every movement was now beyond his control.

All he could do was shut his eyes tight and wait for it to be over.

"_Maxwell!" he yelled, almost muted against the endless gattling overhead and the stream of enemy grenades exploding in unexpected places. Zechs scurried towards him, his porcelain complexion marred by Iraqi soil. "I'm going in to take out their tanks."_

"_Lieutenant, that's not a good idea!" shouted Duo. "They've got us overrun! Everyone's busy trying to pick off as many of them as they can before backup arrives!"_

"_I know that, Duo," yelled Zechs. "But we'll be dead before they get here if I don't do something. This is the only opportunity we have."_

_Duo paused, adrenaline coursing throughout his body. All around him, soldiers were getting blown away or attempting to save themselves from the carnage. Otto had been yelling at the top of his lungs for hours, firing round after round to the guerilla faction's ground troops. Mueller and Walker were stranded inside a building, fending off as many men as they could._

_As Zechs gazed at him with pleading eyes, much like a martyr would, Duo knew precisely what had to be done._

_He accessed his radio and said, "Wing Zero, over." The man on the other line gave a crackled reply. "Fuck the snipers in the building above the tanks."_

"_Over and out," said the voice in the radio. Zechs turned around just in time to see an enemy combatant tumble screaming out of the crumbling stucco building's window._

"_Go, sir," shouted Duo with a roguish grin. He gave the lieutenant a thumbs up and a wink. "We'll take care of 'em."_

"_All my trust in you to do so, Corporal," said Zechs with the stern smile Duo would remember for years._

"Sir?" said Trowa, breaking the spell of the war cast over Duo. Duo blinked and looked down upon a slightly worried Trowa. "It's done, sir."

"Well?" said Duo, his arms crossed. He pretended as best he could that he hadn't just spaced out next to Trowa, who had probably more reason to fall asleep than he did. "What's it say?"

Trowa stayed quiet long enough for Duo to know that whatever was contained so well in the file was unusual. The butler turned to him, the startling emerald of Trowa's visible eye sending a shiver of concern down Duo's spine. It was during moments of essential severity that Trowa reserved his unease, which now was being displayed pointedly.

"I think it will yet another sleepless night for us both, sir," said Trowa, turning his attention back to the information in front of him. He clacked away on the keyboard, pulling up an image of a little known Russian ex-terrorist who was a member of the anti-American group named the Order of the Zodiac—OZ, for short.

"It's Trinoi Levinski, sir," explained Trowa, opening another file containing the man's meager government biography.

When OZ's dreams of widespread Russian fascism were thwarted, they turned their attention to the Middle East and began supporting the anti-American movements that had come to fruition during the long years of the war. Levinski, at the time, was rumored to be the leader of Russia's largest black market arms suppliers for these pocket terrorist factions. Oddly enough, they had even, at one point, attempted to kill Duo; but, as they found out, it was quite impossible to kill a ghost.

Soon enough, the members of OZ found themselves running for their own safety when their funds were drained by the fifteen years of war. Since the capture of bin Laden, there has been little OZ activity if any at all; most were refugees hiding out in little-known Russian towns.

"Was it OZ?" asked Duo grimly. "Did they order the attack?"

"No, sir, OZ was never directly involved in any large-scale attacks on the military," Trowa proceeded to print the information. "But if anyone would know about anti-American factions in the Middle East during the time of the attack, Mr. Levinski would. Even if OZ is now a defunct organization, their remaining ex-members should have all the information you need."

Trowa gathered the documents into a single manila folder and handed it to Duo. "And despite his best efforts to remain hidden, Mr. Levinski has recently been spotted wandering the streets of Prague," he said with a knowing gaze. Duo stared emptily at the computer screen and the face it held within. "Shall I start a review of security tapes around the area?" offered the butler carefully.

"Don't be silly, Tro," said Duo with a pensive smile. He ruffled Trowa's perfectly-kempt hair and took the folder from him. "I said you'd have the day off, and so now you do. I run, I hide, but I never lie, Trowa. Now get out of here." He disappeared around the corner of a false wall, heading to the back of the room, which had resting on it several disarrayed television screens and keyboards.

Trowa stood there, silently grieving for the great pathos of his master for a long while, before he went back upstairs to get some well-deserved rest.

**xxx**

"In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit," said Duo subserviently, "Amen."

"Good evening, Duo," replied the priest. "And how are you this week? Have we more to add to your body count?"

Duo laughed, his countenance easing slightly. "You know, father, I love it when you're glib. It's so unnatural coming from a guy like you."

"_A guy_ _like me_," echoed the priest. "And what do you mean by that?"

"Well, you know, a priest."

"Being priests does not automatically discount us from being just as human as you. We're not aliens; we have the same feelings you do, Duo."

"Somehow, I doubt that, father. Your path takes you from a completely different direction than the rest of society."

"Oh?" The priest chuckled. "And what would you know about the life of a priest?"

"More than you'd think," replied Duo. "My father was a father."

The priest paused. "So, is that why you have returned to the Church? In memory of your father?"

"No. Funny enough, it was the reason I decided not to come back."

"Was he a bad father, then?"

"No. He was a great father," said Duo with a hint of nostalgic sadness. "and also a great _father_. When his church was set on fire, he even went down with it, like a captain and his ship."

"So what was it that changed your mind?"

"Honestly, father?" asked Duo.

"Of course _honestly_, Duo. Must you ask every time?"

Duo chewed his bottom lip. "I think if you hadn't been my priest the day I decided to come back, I probably would have left all the same."

"That's very flattering, Duo," replied the priest with a smile in his voice. "But I'm just as good as any servant of God's."

"Don't fool yourself with humble lies, father," said Duo very seriously. "My life is significantly affected by these confessions, as much as I hate to admit it to myself. From the very day I met you, you asked the questions I've needed to answer. And not once did your voice judge me for the monster that I am."

"I am no judge, Duo, and you are no monster."

"Yes, you are. And yes, I am. You're here to judge in place of God because it's you who knows him best. And you'll listen to the horrific stories of people like myself and go to sleep at night, weighing your own conscience while you think of a way to save the monsters—to save me."

"I do only what I am able."

"Me too."

"No, you don't, Duo," said the priest. "Perhaps it is my turn now to impart upon you my personal—my _human_—understanding of you, because you seem to be so blind to your capabilities… I know there is much you have not told me, but it is obvious to me that you continue to dwell heavily on a past that, for you, remains largely unresolved. When you are in this house of God, these chains are loosened, but they possess you nonetheless."

Duo leaned back into the confessional's wall and stared blankly at the door in front of him. The very timbre of the priest's voice seeped into the open edges of the mask he wore so well and caught him in a way only one other person ever did; it drifted into his mind and met his denials in the face. The voice was a melody, a taste, an aroma that unearthed the long-lost feeling of comfort.

"You are haunted by something, Duo. It is why, even with me, you must ask permission to be honest. You have lost control of yourself and your actions, and I believe they are driven by something external from you. And if you do not find a way to break his hold—his spell—you will never find peace. In the end, you will just be an empty shell of a person, waiting ever patiently to waste away."

**xxx**

In the back of the room, Duo watched several screens flicker with the slow-moving bodies of tourists and Czech pedestrians. They were like spirits roaming an old land destroyed by modernity, feet traipsing delicately on the hard cobblestone that lined the interior of Prague. As the sunlight shifted frame by frame, Duo's hands likewise systematically arranged a symphony of weapons in preparation for his next move.

_After the attack had subsided (greatly in thanks to Lieutenant Merquise's successful demolition of enemy tanks), Duo and the rest of his platoon was flown back to base, finally safe from harm. Once they arrived, they were immediately shipped to sick bay to get cleaned and have their wounds treated._

_Fortunately, Duo's team had only minor abrasions that needed attention. As he and Heero sat together watching mutilated bodies get maneuvered around about them, Duo said, "I almost wish that was me."_

"_Why?" asked Heero._

"_Because they get to go back to their normal lives, choose another path."_

"_Look at them, Duo," said his partner. A Marine who had his leg blown off was wheeled off to the emergency station, his pained screams making Duo sick to his stomach. "They will never live normal lives. Is that really the road you want to take to get out of this war?"_

"_You know me, Heero," said Duo with a laugh. "I'll take the path of least resistance—the road less traveled by."_

_Heero observed with him with a severity reserved for moments when he knew Duo was lying. This was one of them._

**TBC**

!NOTES! Good lord, that took a while to get out. This chapter spends a lot of time moving things forward slowly, I'm sure you noticed. The build-up, in this case, is necessary; such is the curse of the kind of AU I chose to write. As you can probably tell, the section involving the government part was the hardest to write, as I have _no_ idea how any of that goes down. A lot of this story requires from the reader a great willingness to suspend their belief, even though I tried as best as I could to ground it in _some_ sort of reality. All of the names of soldiers and kind of extra characters are taken from the anime itself (White Fang/OZ members). Thanks for reading!


	3. numbers

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

episode numbers

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_i pack my suit in a bag; i'm all dressed up for Prague  
i'm all dressed up with you; all dressed up for him too  
prepare myself for a war, before i even open up my door  
before i even look out, i'm pissing all of my bullets about_

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_20:00._

Duo deduced that Trinoi Levinski was a man of above-average intelligence. It was only ever a matter of time before so-called men of action got tired of laying low and playing safe. Ex-spooks, thieves, killers—it didn't matter; all of them were intensely bored by the idea of a nice house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. Chaos was the drug of choice for adrenaline junkies like Levinski, who would rather bet his life in a gamble than opt out for a peaceful existence.

Not that Duo was complaining—it was due to this addiction to chaos that Levinski was brought out of hiding. Now, he was placing his bets on Duo's table, and the poor son of a bitch didn't have a chance in hell.

_Rule number one: the house always wins,_ thought Duo as he sat, patiently awaiting the arrival of his prey in the Ungelt Jazz and Blues Club, smack dab in the heart of Prague.

Duo considered the possibility that perhaps God was looking out for him on his little manhunt. It was the beginning of a new school year, so most of the students and tourists were absent from the scene. It was a weeknight, also; the perfect time for the locals to come and enjoy the music without the squealing Chinese girls and their tiny flashing cameras. There was an ex-pat and an NYU student or two, but they passed as good company for locals with the yankophile disease.

The bartender—a man in his late twenties dressed like a hipster from the Lower East Side— approached him with a drink list and a grin that made him look awfully like a young Woody Allen.

"What would you like?" he said with a heavy Czech accent.

«You have Staropramen here? If so, give me two.» said Duo, who received the surprised look he was expecting. The young man laughed, placing the laminated list down in front of Duo.

«Sorry, man, I thought you were an American,» he said to Duo. «You look like someone straight from one of their magazines.»

"That's because I am," replied Duo in English. «But what kind of visitor would I be if I didn't learn the local lingo?.»

Looking even more baffled than before, the bartender gave Duo and apologetic look as he proceeded to serve other customers. He returned with two extra-large glasses of beers and placed it before Duo.

«Sorry about that. It's almost show time so people are steadily heading down. The rest will probably be down here soon after dinner.» Duo reckoned he was probably referring to the tenants eating dinner at the restaurant above the underground club.

'Woody Allen,' as Duo mentally referred to him as, squinted his eyes at Duo, as if he were trying to see him in a better light. It prompted Duo to look at him questioningly.

«I swear, man, you look really familiar. Are you famous?» he said, frankly.

Woody turned away from him for a moment to serve more new patrons. Duo glanced quickly at his watch for the time.

_20:30_. _Show time_.

He looked towards the door and soon enough, the man in question sauntered ever so suspiciously into the premises. He turned back to the bar and met once again with the curious gaze of the bartender.

«You are, aren't you? Famous, I mean?» he asked again. Duo could hear the tinge of excitement in his voice and found it was the right time to take his leave. He slapped a wad of Euros onto the table and put his finger to his lips.

«Ssh,» said Duo coquettishly. «Don't tell anyone.» He winked before taking off to the other side of the establishment, beers in hand, leaving the bartender blushing.

Duo took a large gulp from one the glasses. Before he descended the steps into the crowded stage area, he inhaled and prepared himself for the role he would soon play. Without any further delay, Duo plastered a wide grin on his face. He began rudely bumping the seated patrons as he made his way to his chosen seat, shouting loud, insincere excuses. He received a million dirty glares, but he noticed quickly that his target hardly gave him a second look. The stoic Russian merely stared at the bottom of his empty bottle of beer even as Duo boisterously sat down across from him.

The band, a quartet of aging musicians in plain casual wear, soon began their set with a jazzed-up rendition of The Beatles' "Happiness is a Warm Gun." Duo swayed with the music, purposely botching the words of the song as he crooned it obnoxiously along with the band. As the song moved into five-minute solos from each member of the band, Duo turned to stare blankly at the well-dressed Trinoi Levinski across the table from him with eyes wide and snoopy. Trinoi caught Duo's look and raised a brow right back at him.

Duo set his chin on his palm childishly, as if inebriated, and said to him a little above the music, "You like the music?" Trinoi replied with a perplexed scrunch of the brow and a shrug.

"_Aimez-vous cette musique?_" he then said in French. The man shook his head. Duo paused, pursed his lips, and tapped his finger on the table for a minute, before he leaned in closer to him and said the same sentence, this time in Russian.

The man instantly perked up when he heard his mother tongue. He shook his head and set his empty bottle down onto the table between them.

«They're playing American bullshit,» he said.

«Actually, it's British bullshit, but I guess that's probably the same to you, eh?»

«They are all nations of sheep,» he said, following with a derisive laugh. «You are Russian?»

«Oh, no, no, I'm not Russian,» replied Duo, exaggerating the answer with hand gestures implying _no_. «I'm a lawyer. I work with a pharmaceutical company in America, but Prague is my city.»

The Russian nodded with a vacant look that was supposed to convey inattentiveness, but Duo knew better. He even caught the other man's gaze shifting to the two tall glasses of beer he'd brought.

«You are waiting for someone?» he asked, tipping his head to the direction of the untouched glass.

Duo shook his head, gulping down one glass. He bobbed his head disjointedly with the music. «Nope, I'm a lone wolf tonight. I'm on vacation from my wife and kids. I just plan on getting _very_ fucked up, you know?» he joked. «You can have this one if you like. I'm about to get outta here soon to get some real hard stuff. Blow my brains out by the time the night's over.»

Duo turned back to the band onstage, but he knew Trinoi was eyeing both him and the glass of beer, albeit skeptically. When the set ended, Duo whooped and hollered, pretending rather effectively that he was indeed just another lousy American drunk with too much money. It was at this moment that Trinoi decided to take Duo up on his offer, smiling as he reached out for the other glass.

"Oh, wait, wait!" yelped Duo, taking up his own glass. «To the band!» he exclaimed in Czech, shocking all those around him. He forcibly clinked glasses with Trinoi, who shiftily glanced at the customers staring at Duo and his antics, attempting to imply that he had no connection to the braided moron making a fool of himself.

In such a fashion, Duo made a spectacle of himself the rest of the night. The Russian loosened up after a few rounds of premium Czech beers, as did the rest of the crowd, even the band. Many of them began dancing and, soon enough, everyone in the crowd was as animated as Duo. The band played local favorites as well as more jazz renditions of popular songs, which was exactly what the patrons wanted to hear after a hard day's work.

Three hours came and went, and both Duo and Trinoi were hysterically laughing as they stumbled drunkenly out of the club. The two men, arm in arm, breezed through tired tourists and small crowds on the Charles Bridge and down to Malà Strana. When they arrived at Petřín Park, they sat down on a white steel bench beneath a dying tree to rest.

«You're a very strange man, Mr. Yuy,» said the Russian, referring to Duo by his chosen alias. «You are loud, obnoxious, and yet you managed to make a roomful of enemies into friends in one night.»

«What can I say? I'm just good with people. It's a talent.»

«It's a real pity, you know,» replied Trinoi, «For such a talented man to have befriended someone like me.»

«And here I thought that was a good thing!» exclaimed Duo, taking a swig of beer from the bottle in his hand.

«In other circumstances, you might have been useful,» said Trinoi thoughtfully.

«Oh yeah?» Duo grinned stupidly at him. «Why not now, eh buddy?»

«Because I'm going to kill you now, _buddy._»

Trinoi's hand clutched at something inside his neat khaki blazer. However, instead of fear, the Russian saw a rather unexpected emotion displayed plainly on Duo's face—amusement. And then he realized he was grasping at nothing.

«Yeah, about that,» said Duo, patting something solid in his leather jacket. It dawned on Trinoi that it was the gun that was missing from his own holster. Duo smiled impishly. «Maybe some other time.»

«The fuck…» began Trinoi; but before he could complete his threatening sentence, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He fell face down into Duo's lap, completely unconscious.

"Oh, goddamn it," whined Duo, attempting to wriggle his groin away from Trinoi's face. A couple passed by them, awkwardly staring, and all Duo could do at the time was raise his bottle to them and bite back the discomfort of his situation. When the couple turned the corner, Duo groaned out loud.

"Trowa, a little help please?" he whined.

Stepping out from behind a tree with a tranquilizer gun in hand, Trowa said, "On my way, sir."

**xxx**

The wind wafted through the Prague countryside like an icy banshee, its low whistling flustering leaves from their branches and freezing the dewy grasses of the hills. This early in the morning, light was far from Europe's side of the earth. Darkness blanketed the city away from its populous center, successfully engulfing every nook of its outer vicinities.

Somewhere in the sea of black stood an abandoned government building covered in snakes of ivy. It was hidden by small hills and a copse of yews, safe from main roads and, more importantly, sight. And deep below it was a rectangular World War II-era torture chamber, containing within it three bodies all waiting patiently for the right moment to arrive.

Awkwardly recumbent on an antique metal chair strewn with cobwebs, Duo Maxwell fell unsoundly asleep. His trusty servant and partner-in-crime sat silently behind a dusty desk, eyes closed in deep contemplation. He seemed unperturbed by the thunderous echoing of Duo's snoring, for he said nothing of it; but when his master's chair began to tip dangerously backwards, the young man, his face half-hidden in shadow, spoke up loud and clear.

"_Sir_," he said, slightly irritated. "Mr. Levinski is _regaining consciousness_. Perhaps you should _wake up_ also?"

Fortunately for Duo, he awoke just before he could topple over. His chair creaked as he sat straight set his entire weight back on its legs. He rubbed his tired, jet-lagged eyes, and looked up in time to see his victim's head shake itself out of its five-hour sleep.

«Good morning, starshine,» said Duo. He stood up, stretched his arms, and yawned exuberantly. «The earth says hello!»

When Trinoi Levinski opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was a stabbing pain in his head. After a few more minutes of awareness, he felt the pain travel from his head to his shoulders, and then down to his thighs and ankles. He groaned and lifted his head, and saw that he was definitely _not_ in Petřín Park any longer.

From what he could tell, he was in a big room. Most of it was empty and covered in darkness; there was nothing around him, save two blurry figures, one standing and one seated. He tried to move his arms, but when he did, he found himself unable to change positions. He tried to move his legs, too, but that only made the pain in his entire body worse.

«Get it?» said Duo cheerily. «Because we're underground? And it's nighttime? Oh, nevermind." He sighed; Trinoi could hear faint tinkling noises, like small metal objects being moved around a hard surface. «Just how long does it take to wear off, Nanashi? I'm getting tired of waiting.»

«Where… where am I…» mumbled the Russian to the muddied figures in front of him. Weakly, he tried to move again but to no avail. This time, he heard clanging against something hard and cold—probably whatever it was that he was lying on.

«Oh, wonderful! Sleeping Beauty is finally awake,» Duo sighed, finding himself strapped for jokes; meaning, of course, that he was really, really tired. He yawned again, right in Trinoi's face. «You want to know where you are, Trinoi? Look around you. It should be pretty obvious.»

«Who are you!» said Trinoi, futiley attempting to shake himself loose. «Where am I!»

«Jeez, you've got a one-track mind. Well, let's see… I'll answer the easy question first.» Trinoi watched as Duo approached him. Something seemed strange about the angle. «You're still in Prague. You'll probably be here for longer than you planned, seeing as you're chained you to the wall.»

And then it hit Trinoi. The reason he was unable to move was because he was chained spread-eagle onto the wall, just as his captor said he was. It explained the burning ache in his joints and muscles. And this man—this _Yuy_ or whoever it was—had somehow incapacitated him before he had a chance to kill him back at the park.

«You… who the fuck are you?» growled Trinoi, still struggling. «What the hell did you do to me?» Duo laughed mockingly at him as he wound a thick bandage over his right hand, hiding a set of brass knuckles.

«My, aren't we full of questions,» said Duo flippantly. «Don't worry, I haven't done anything to you yet. Wouldn't want you to miss the party.» He approached Trinoi and pinched his cheeks with his bandaged hand and then clocked him straight on the nose. Upon impact, blood spurted from Trinoi's broken nose like a crimson tide. «There. _Now_ you can worry.»

Yet instead of screaming out in pain, the Russian chuckled hoarsely. «What, you think you can make me talk by giving me bruises and a few broken bones?» he said. «You Americans are all the same. _No fucking class_. No wonder you're losing your fucking war.»

Duo laughed again—but this time, it unwontedly sent shivers down Trinoi's spine. To him, it sounded unreal; but above all things, Trinoi was disturbed by its childlike joyfulness. It was too high, too pure, to have escape from the mouth of the man who stood before him, blood dripping from his knuckles.

«Giving you bruises?» asked Duo, a sinister grin on his face. He absently tapped the flat part of his bandaged fist. «Who do you think I am, Levinski, the police?»

Without any visual warning, he smashed his fist into Trinoi's collarbone. The blow was followed by a resounding crack and an intense howl from the prisoner. Trinoi realized that he had lost control over his left arm, yet could still feel the unbearable throb of pain. He could _feel_ the fractured bones ripping through the fractured skin.

«No presents today, Trinoi. I'm just _tenderizing_ you.»

The Russian's every exhalation was ridden with tremors. But even then, he knew it was too early to show signs of defeat. He grit his teeth and pulled his head up in order to look his abductor in the eye. He was startled by what he saw staring back at him.

Hunger—pleating with the dilation of his eyes, blooming with the rush of blood to his cheeks. It was the hunger for violence that Trinoi himself was so familiar with—and he knew that was precisely the reason he was being held here. He knew that the very areas that Duo was choosing to attack with vicious force were designed to cause him as much pain in a single second without knocking him unconscious.

The situation was obvious: this wasn't just torture.

Before he could speak in protest, Duo's boot had his knee crushed beneath its inch-thick leather sole. Trinoi choked on his scream, wanting to cry, but the mind-blowing pain prevented his entire body from taking any action. It was as if his brain was on fire; no matter how long he waited in between each devastating attack, the pain refused to subside. Each following strike was more agonizing the next: another crushed knee, a switchblade in the left shoulder, a dislocated jaw.

After only half an hour, Trinoi could take no more.

«Stop,» said Trinoi with a stifled cry, «I'll t-tell you anything. Everything. Just s-s-top…»

«Your poor motherfucker, you,» said Duo without a hint of mercy, hands sweating in blood. «It used to be that bastards like you would die before saying even a word.»

Duo walked over to the table where Trowa, quietly observing, was sitting. Duo picked up a large picture frame, containing within it a small article. He held it to where Trinoi's head hung down. The Russian whimpered, convulsing in pain as he attempted to see what was in front of him.

«Who was responsible for this?» asked Duo, his tone full of promised threats. Trinoi heaved and blood, spit, and mucus gushed out of his throat onto Duo's shoe; his captor gazed emptily at him and shoved the cold glass into his broken nose. «You have ten seconds to answer or the next thing you'll see are your little men swimming in my fucking fist.»

Trinoi choked on a sob as he read the headline: _UNKNOWN TERRORIST FACTION AMBUSHES MARINE-LED OPERATION INTO FALLUJAH BASE, LEAVES TEN SOLDIERS DEAD._

«Five…» counted Duo slowly, watching the man writhe in agony while trying to remember. Duo's expression became instantly murderous.

«Four, three, two, one.» growled Duo. «See ya.» With his sleeve pushed back, Duo's fingers snatched the man's testicles—but he stopped his actions immediately when the guttural Russian words caught his ear.

«Quinze,» mumbled Trinoi. «The leader called himself… Quinze… They never gave me any other name…»

Duo reluctantly put his arm down and listened to the Russian. «Where can I find him?» asked Duo sharply. Trinoi coughed up more blood.

«It's your lucky day, Yuy,» said Trinoi with a pained chuckle. «It so happens… that he wanted to make a deal with me… thinks OZ is still around helping them… sons of bitches fuck America in the ass… was gonna… blackmail him… money… supposed to meet… in… Ostrava… џұқхдтуф…»

Trinoi continued to mumble unintelligibly. Duo motioned towards Trowa, who had begun his furious scribing of Trinoi's words long before the signal was given. Once the Russian had stopped making any sound, Duo looked to Trowa for a reiteration of the information.

"Sanc Estate in Ostrava on the twentieth hour, two days from now," read Trowa aloud. "Also, he said you could cut off his testicles and fry them if you wanted, you pathetic, small-dicked American hippie…"

Duo crinkled his nose in displeasure. Trowa continued. "…If I had caught you twenty years ago, I would have made you gag on my—"

"For Oprah's sake, Trowa, do you _really_ have to read that part aloud?" asked Duo irritably. The butler blinked absently and placed the notepad back onto the dusty desk.

"No, sir. Just thought his last words ought to be heard." he replied, sitting back down. Duo glared at the taciturn young man.

Trinoi could hear and understand their voices in the background. When he heard Trowa's words, he fought against the pain to lift his head up to face them both. Slack-jawed and looking like death warmed over, he said in heavily-inflected English, "My last words… I knew it… you fucking demon…"

Duo turned around to look at Trinoi. The Russian was half-surprised to find Duo looking down on him with kind, almost remorseful eyes—giving him the kind of look he had once given to men partially responsible for the murder of the one and only love of his life. His gaze drifted sleepily to the framed article in Duo's hand. In that single instant, Trinoi understood everything.

«I'll be sure to tell him of your devotion,» he said with an ironic smile. «I can tell you're a good soldier, so if I ask you to let me die like one, you'll do it, right?»

Duo's eyes became downcast as he lifted Trinoi's head high to expose his bloodied throat. Trinoi saw the polished metal Duo was trying to conceal below his peripheral vision.

«Good-bye, Trinoi,» he said. «I'll make it quick.» The Russian made a displeased noise.

«No… not like this,» he said, «In the gut. Twist it so it hurts… enough to shut out the light.»

**xxx**

The two men came back the next day to inspect the corpse of Trinoi Levinski still chained to the wall. The Russian's expression was peaceful and receptive of his timely fate. His eyes, like a porcelain doll's, stared out into the empty blackness of the chamber with fondness.

After they removed him from the wall, Trowa began to hose off Trinoi's dead body with water, gently showering away the coagulated blood on his pale, sallow skin. Duo prepared the furnace in the corner of the room.

"You did quite a number on this man, sir," said Trowa through a white surgical mask. "Pity; he could have lived well after the injuries." He dried off the corpse with several towels. Duo walked back towards him, dusting off coal residue from his gloved hands.

"Look at him, Trowa," replied Duo. "Even he knew he could never have lived a normal life after this. Would anyone choose such a fate?"

They rolled up Trinoi's naked body in the towels and lifted him onto a clean, white stretcher. They then wheeled him towards the large, iron-gated furnace, which blew cinders in all directions when Duo swung it open.

"It has been my experience that most often would, sir, as it is a rather easy choice," said Trowa as they made a joint effort to tilt the stretcher upward. Trowa watched the body slide into the flickering fires with a growing discomfort in the pit of his stomach. His attention drifted to his master, who was watching the flames lick at Trinoi's body with frightening detachment.

"Most often would," he repeated somewhat wistfully.

**xxx**

Cup of coffee in hand, Duo sat listlessly at a café called Boulevard, waiting for something to pop up on the screen in front of him. His other hand squished remains of a very delicious tiramisu under a silver fork; and then, rather unceremoniously, his laptop screen was flooded with aerials of Ostrava in the daytime and various schematics. He licked the tiramisu crumbs off his fork and pulled out his cell phone to send a text message.

**Thx luv**, it read. His butler on the receiving end did not see it fit to reply.

Duo pocketed the phone and began to review the images in front of him, meticulously marking areas according to potential. He carefully surveyed the landscape surrounding the building in question: that is, Sanc Estate, rumored to have been the home of one of Prague's long-lost royal families.

As far as Duo could tell, it was abandoned or just poorly taken-care of. The only plants to be seen in the courtyard were shrubs and various other undergrowth; they littered the faded red cobblestone path like dead green animals and pushed through the rusted fencing. The plants no doubt traveled down to the mansion from the large man-made hill that bordered it. The hill itself intruded on a tall, brick wall, acting as a natural barrier from the neighborhood that rested just behind it.

The estate was a modest mansion, built with only ten rooms, and largely constructed of wood—certainly not the best kind of protection from anything in Duo's arsenal. What he found most interesting was that the building was located right across from the last row of neo-classicist apartment buildings. They served as the perfect trajectory point for Duo's attempt; according to the schematics, they would be no problem to infiltrate (yet nothing in the former Eastern Bloc was really that difficult to break into anyway).

The braided assassin closed off his laptop and stood up. But just as he was about to make headway for his destination, his cell phone sent vibrations down his right leg.

**Apts no good. Hill behind estate has camo, access to windows.**

Duo smiled. _That Trowa_, he thought affectionately. _Always looking out for number one_.

And look out for number one he did. The location Trowa had advised him to go to was by far a much better choice. He was actually a bit ashamed to admit he'd missed it as a potential point of operation: good cover, no potential witnesses, indeed provided good access to many windows, easy escape route.

He sighed dramatically, as if his butler could see his disappointment, and proceeded to meander on the streets near the city center as a cover. Once traffic began to stream through the streets, Duo seemed to disappeared impossibly behind them, only to reappear in the shadiest part of the estate's surrounding area. Like a snake, he slithered into openings in the overgrown foliage just beyond Sanc's gates. The soil beneath his feet crunched as he scaled the slope, going deeper into the thicket of tree-like weeds until he hit the brick wall on which it partly rested.

Duo, confident enough that the plan was going accordingly, unpacked his bag of deadly toys. Safely hidden amidst the leafy camouflage, he arranged his weapons, sat, and waited. Through his PSG-1's sight, he could see clearly into the open windows of Sanc Estate. Contrary to its outside appearance, the estate contained within it a habitable residence—at least, in Duo's opinion.

For instance: the room on the left-hand side, third window from the center, was a library. The interior was darkly-colored, but a bright light showered the room. There were bookcases and books, all of which looked as if they were being used by whoever lived inside. There were also other rooms, some lit, some not, but they were decorated and had signs of life to them.

However, Duo was content to keep his attention on one window for most of the time he waited. It was the most conspicuous room, lavished with gold-gilded furniture and tall, exotic flowers in large vases. It was the room that waited as he waited.

He noticed offhand during his wait two black Volkswagen sedans rolling by the mansion and into the street behind it, just beyond the wall on which Duo sat. They parked their cars directly behind each other on the sidewalk. Unfortunately, at about the same time, signs of movement in the room Duo was previously monitoring caught his eye. He turned his full attention to the people now entering the room in question, in a mansion that was rumored to have been long-abandoned.

_Quinze_, he thought, envisioning the grisly death of the figure ambling inside the room.

The elderly man dressed in shoddy khaki clothing with shoulder-length white hair was speaking with a young maid. Duo's finger touched the trigger as soon as the maid bowed and headed out of the room.

And he would have pulled the trigger, too, were it not for the men clad in black now strolling into the room. Duo assumed they were Trinoi's new OZ recruits, but something struck him about their obstinate entrance. As he counted them, one by one entering the room, Duo realized that something was definitely off about their presence.

_Wasn't this a meeting between Trinoi and Quinze?_ he thought. His gut was wrenched by an ill feeling as he considered countless possibilities about the men in black, most of them involving the word 'trap,' but he couldn't fathom how they could know about him.

He choked on his own spit at what he saw next: a pair of familiar blue eyes gazing directly at him from beneath a messy mat of dark brown hair.

It was then that both fear and uncertainty suddenly attacked him in a way that he had long since forgotten. For a moment, he felt as if he was back in Iraq, trapped behind enemy lines, looking his potential killer face to face.

Duo's finger slipped off the trigger as Quinze's body interjected itself between Duo and the blue eyes, shutting the blinds to his memories and his perfect shot.

"Shit!" he cursed, knowing that he had been seen—or rather, realizing that they had foreseen his attack somehow. He shook his head, mentally kicking himself for not having included a potential trap in his gameplan. _That fucking bastard Trinoi! _ He dismantled his rifle as quickly as he could, but as he did, he caught a glimpse of the two cars parked behind him and the red lights blinking steadily faster on the dashboard of both of them. His eyes widened in revelation.

"_Ho_ly shit."

The resounding explosion was deafening. It rocked the ground on which the area stood and decimated the lower half of both the high wall and the hill on which Duo sat. By the time he realized he was surrounded by flimsy weeds that were now catching fire, Duo had already fallen backwards and rolling on the pile of dirt, rubble, and car parts. He felt something sharp and metal scrape his side as he flopped onto the ground like a dead rat.

His ears were ringing. He lifted his head up feebly, in time to spot another bomb hidden near the base of the wall that curved into the next street, and several more bombs strewn down the wall. Duo was a mere thirty or so feet from it; he knew he needed cover. He inhaled a mouthful of dirt as he rolled over the debris, purposely wounding himself on strewn scraps, in order to fall over the edge of the demolished hill.

The second bomb exploded and the piece of wall still left behind Duo blew open and threw him face-forward into the ground. He felt the burn of both fire and asphalt grinding against his skin as he skidded to a halt on the other side of the street.

He could hear panicked voices growing in the distance with every exploding bomb. As much as he wanted to just lie down and give up, Duo knew he couldn't stay—either they would come to pick up his body or it would be all over the news by the tomorrow.

Finally, the explosions ceased. Trying his best to ignore the unbearable stinging of his wounds, Duo pushed himself upwards to escape the scene in time to go unnoticed; in a matter of minutes, the locals and the city's police and firemen would come rushing in for damage control.

He hobbled as fast as he could to the next block, where his car was parked, fishing for both his keys in his pocket.

"No, no, come on!" he huffed out, wincing as his arm spasmed in his attempt to open his car door. Once he had it open, Duo threw himself inside his car and drove furiously out of the area, past the zooming cop cars and fire trucks now arriving onto the scene.

When he made it to highway 47, Duo tapped the car's navigational screen madly. Finally, he accessed the phone for a call, which was promptly answered by his butler.

"Sir?" asked Trowa with a worried voice.

"Ambush, Trowa," said Duo breathlessly. "That bastard Trinoi… I don't know what's going on, Trowa… I swear I saw…" the braided man started coughing wildly, splattering the steering wheel and his hands with blood. "…should get the plane ready … need to get out of here as soon as possible, Trowa."

"It's done, sir," replied the butler softly. "But I will leave you if you do not come back here alive and whole."

Duo laughed weakly and the line broke, leaving only a dial tone. _That Trowa…_ he thought, smiling despite the stable blood loss he was experiencing—smiling, because, there was nothing else he could do to ward off the fear of death as he fought against his fading vision.

**xxx**

A muffled boom rocked the floor on which Quinze stood; the entire mansion was shaken by the aftershock of the explosion. Quinze stepped back from the window and sat himself down behind a lacquered, gold-edged wooden desk. Two men dressed in similarly ratty khaki clothing and flak jackets stood on either side of him with AK-47s in hand. Quinze looked straight at the men standing directly opposite of him.

"It's all taken care of." Quinze smiled wryly at the man who spoke.

"Don't you think that was a little tactless?" he said to the man. Through his own induction, Quinze pinned him as the managing agent, in spite of his youthful façade. He was the only one of the agents present in the room not wearing dark sunglasses and a black suit. Instead, he wore over his attire a long, navy peacoat with a striped scarf tucked underneath. His eyes, the color of nighttime oceans, were at once menacing and aloof.

"Do you?" asked the blue-eyed man, whose silky voice matched the smooth precision of his appearance. Quinze's lips quirked upward upon hearing his obviously sardonic question.

"Touché, Agent," said Quinze. "It seems as if you only have the _looks_ of a child. So, to what do I owe this ostentatious display of American power? Am I being threatened? Or have you come to give me the final numbers so that we may reach an agreement?"

"Afraid not, Quinze. An unforeseen liability has pushed the date of the agreement's finalization back."

"Again?" Quinze's lips thinned into a line, displeased. "Does your government think so little of us that it cannot give us what is needed _when_ we need it?"

"Whining will not get you what you want, Quinze," The agent smiled dryly. "Doesn't our very presence show you how seriously we are taking this agreement?"

The elderly man kept quiet. The blue-eyed agent signaled one of the suited men to procure and deliver a set of documents to Quinze's desk, which one of them promptly did. The suited subordinate returned to his stiff position behind the lead agent.

"This is about your _other_ business "partner," Trinoi Levinski," the lead explained. "Safe to say that I don't think he will be coming anytime soon."

Quinze was stunned. His face said it all: _How the fuck did you know about Levinski?_, clear as the day was bright.

"Don't look so surprised, Quinze. Did you think you could barter a better deal with us if we thought you could make this deal with someone else? Or better yet, was he merely insurance in case things didn't go through with us?" The agent chuckled lightly, condescendingly. Quinze glared at the documents in front of him. "Perhaps it's time you understand just who it is _you_ are dealing with."

After a lengthy pause, the old man mumbled hoarsely, "When will you come next?"

The agent approached his desk, somber despite Quinze's clear aggravation. He placed a small white card onto the hardwood surface. With strict penmanship, a date, time, and location were scrawled onto the card. The agent then motioned for the rest of his team to exit the premises.

"Wait," said Quinze, much to his own chagrin. "What are you going to do about the mess outside? Surely, you can't just walk out of here without looking suspicious."

"We are not your concern," the blue-eyed man replied. To Quinze's surprise, he remained waiting at the door. The agent readily recognized the familiar face of a person with a question on their tongue. "Anything else?"

"Actually, yes," said Quinze, swallowing his pride in order to ask the question that needed to be asked. "Is there a name I may refer to for future contact? If I'm to trust you will not rescind on our agreement, it's only fair for me to know just _who_ it is I'm dealing with."

Quinze thought that for a moment, the agent was shocked by his question. Rather, the agent was merely amused.

"If you insist on calling me something," he replied, "Then call me Agent Odin Lowe."

**xxx**

"…Maxwell…"

—_Who's there?_

"…Maxwell, if you die now, I'll never forgive you…"

—_Am I… I'm… dying?_

"…hold on, m…"

—_Can't be true. It's impossible. I'm the God of Death…_

"…ster Maxwell, please open your eyes…"

—_I can't die. I have to… I have to find…I can't…_

"…Duo, don't you fucking leave me."

—_I won't. I promise. Ever. Never again._

**xxx**

Trowa, evidently distraught, replaced the bloody sheets covering the body in front of him. Tidying up was all he could do to pacify the reeling sensations in his body and mind. He kept thinking only this: while he master nearly bled to death in a small, slummy car, he merely waited.

Trowa was always waiting—waiting for his master to arrive at a given destination; waiting for his master _not_ to arrive at a given destination; waiting for him to return marred with wounds, or better yet, just waiting for him not to return at all. In spite of his own sadness each time such worries would consume him, he honestly felt a little cheated by this fact.

Now here he was, _still_ waiting, patiently performing his duties as the butler, but mostly tending to Duo's severe abdominal wounds in his bedroom. Harsh fluorescent lights lit up the windowless room, revealing only a lack of furniture and a tall bookcase stacked with novels, which (in Trowa's opinion) were all rather uncharacteristic selections. Duo slept peacefully before him, deathly pale beneath the stark light.

"If you didn't already know, I'm rather disappointed in you, master Maxwell. It's almost as if you're constantly trying to kill yourself… can't even consider what would happen to _me_ if you're to die in your little suicide missions for that ghost of yours…"

Though he felt a great need to express it somehow, Trowa bit back his sorrow. There was never need for mourning. Despite how lifeless he looked, he knew his master would wake up any time now. The only question was whether or not he'd be able to function in a timely manner.

Trowa sighed. "…such an impossible childlike man. Why must you think only of yourself? What do you think I would be without you?"

After he had finished bandaging the ugly lesion on Duo's stomach, he felt the warmth of Duo's hand close brushing against his cheek. As Duo's hand began to wipe away the tears that had formed in Trowa's eyes without his own knowledge, the butler inadvertently leaned into his touch.

"You talk a lot when you think I'm sleeping," whispered Duo. Trowa remained silent for the rest of the night.

**xxx**

It was the beginning of a perfect New York winter. Overnight, a snowstorm had enveloped all the ugly parts of the city in a blanket of white. Every street in Manhattan was picture-perfect; each street and avenue was a scene pulled from _Holiday Inn,_ and Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" seemed to be playing like a soundtrack over the entire metropolis.

That was how it felt for Quatre Raberba-Winner, anyway. He stared outside the passenger window of his car, completely enthralled by the fresh whiteness of New York in the early morning after a storm.

Upon arriving at his destination, Quatre exited extra carefully, in order not to disturb the snow beneath his feet. A sudden cold breeze nipped at the exposed parts of his face, most of which was hidden behind a thick scarf wrapped around his head. The cold caused him to shiver in his custom Ugg boots despite the warmth his heavy brown Eskimo parka provided. His driver, a thin Arabian man, leaned across the passenger seat and gave him a look of concern.

"Mr. Winner, are you sure you don't want me to wait with you?" he asked. Quatre smiled at him with his eyes.

"Oh, don't worry about me, Ahmed. Just go on ahead. You'll get a ticket if you park by this fire hydrant!" chirped the blonde. He shut the car door gently and waved good-bye to his driver, who nodded politely in response before driving off down the street.

Quatre huffed into his scarf to warm up his nose, which he knew was already turning red from the below-zero temperature. _I hope at least Trowa's awake. It's freezing out here,_ thought the blonde as he made his way past the rusted metal gate leading up to the steps of Duo's copper-colored home.

As soon as his boot hit the austere welcome mat on the brownstone's doorstep, the heavy iron-clad door in front of him creaked opened to reveal a smartly-dressed Trowa Barton. Quatre blushed when the young butler bowed to him.

"Oh, Trowa, that's not necessary!" he said, flustered. He turned even redder under his scarf when he realized all his words had sounded like muffled gibberish.

The butler straightened himself. "You should come in, Mr. Winner. You could catch a cold."

Quatre sheepishly stepped past Trowa into Duo's not-so-humble home. He was greeted by startling warmth breathed out by a lit fireplace in the living room down the hall to the left.

Quatre had loved the rustic charm of Duo's home from the moment he first saw it; it was decorated much like a ski resort cabin, one of Quatre's favorite places. It was hard to miss the long flight of stairs that welcomed the visitor of the Maxwell household, as it began a mere ten feet from the entrance and rose up three flights. Brown wood paneling trimmed the walls, on which hung various pieces of modern art that he and Duo had gone out and bought together. There were all types of shag carpets and rugs strewn on the floor that managed to complement whatever area they were placed in.

His eyes trailed towards the hall to the right, towards the kitchen area. The morning light shone into the pristine, white kitchen and bathed it in an angelic glow. His mouth was watering significantly because, even through his thick scarf, he could smell the familiar aroma of Trowa's signature potato pancakes.

He was about to subconsciously float towards the kitchen, but a firm tugging at his parka's hood snapped him out of his food trance. He whisked around and found the gorgeous butler staring at him somberly.

_Oh, no_, thought Quatre, _I just told myself he was gorgeous again._ He frowned and thanked God Trowa couldn't see his personal embarrassment.

"It's warm, Mr. Winner," said the butler with a glint in his eye that Quatre didn't quite understand. After a while of standing still, it finally dawned on the blonde.

"Oh!" he said, muffled. He hurriedly removed his parka and frantically searched for a coat rack of some sort. Quatre thought he saw the butler smile slightly, which caused him to stand there, slightly stupefied. Trowa took that moment of confusion as an opportunity to snatch the coat out of Quatre's hands. Stunned, the blonde could only look on as Trowa hung it onto the rack by the door.

"Shall we?" said the butler, motioning towards the fire-lit living room. Quatre nodded, flustered so terribly that he felt as if his face was literally on fire. Trowa guided him towards his usual seat: a green corduroy armchair with blue paisley print. _"It was once my grandmother's,"_ Duo had once told him.

Quatre was going to ask the butler for some tea, but he noticed the moment he sat down that there was already a steaming cup waiting for him. He could smell from where he sat that it was his special brand of tea—namely, Twinings' Lady Grey—awaiting him. His baby blue eyes sparkled in thanks.

"Sir, if I may…" Trowa's sentence trailed off rather vaguely, causing Quatre to scrunch his brow. He wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to speak. Suddenly, Trowa leaned in closer and Quatre began to feel faint; and yet, he simultaneously felt his face becoming less stifled the longer the butler stayed near him. Only a moment after did he realize that it was because Trowa had unraveled the scarf he'd forgotten he was wearing.

But despite liberation from the garment, Quatre still felt unusually hot. Trowa was dangerously close to his face even after it had been undressed. Both men could hear Duo's familiarly loud footsteps approaching, yet instead of moving further away from Quatre, the butler dared to breach the chasm of tension between them.

The kiss was as dazzling for Quatre as it was too brief. All of their secret kisses were. It seemed to both of them that it was the only way they could enjoy their shared fondness for each other without damaging their fragile realities: one a butler who was as much a vigilante as his master, and the other a rising star whose fame was too young to mar. In both their minds, there would be nothing more but these stolen moments for a while—perhaps forever.

Even so, it was enough for them, for now.

Before Duo had even stepped off the stairs, Trowa was already on his way down the hallway to meet him. Quatre heard them mumbling but contented himself with a daydream composed of what had occurred not more than a minute ago. He smiled to himself as he sipped on his tea, until a familiar voice popped rudely into his happy memory.

"You know, that's the exact look you had on your face after your character got laid in _Diary of a Serial Virgin,_" commented a half-naked, heavily bandaged Duo. "If I didn't know any better, that would've been my first guess, too."

"Duo!" exclaimed Quatre happily, but his face fell upon seeing Duo's bandaged midsection and lacerated arms. "Duo!" He then yelled yet again, this time angrily.

Duo winced and picked at his ears. "Now I don't know whether you're happy to see me or if I've done something wrong…"

For a minute there, the young man's face softened somewhat, calming Duo. "Of course I'm happy to see you, Duo, it's been so long!" And then he continued, as Duo inwardly feared, "But I'm not happy to see you all bandaged up again like some mummy!"

The blonde angrily punched his naked arm, right smack dab on a healing bruise. Duo yelped and saddled up against the wall, feigning great injury with loud whimpers. Quatre gasped guiltily and immediately rushed in to hug him, forgetting all the while Duo's glaringly wounded abdomen.

Duo's eyes bulged out in unmistakable pain, but he bit it back so as not to upset the unremittingly apologetic blonde hugging him for forgiveness. "I-It's okay, Quatre," he squeaked out. "P-please, let's sit down…"

Quatre let go hesitantly while Duo patted his head, their usual way of signifying a 'truce'—at least, until the next time it happened. Quatre plopped down onto his armchair, crossed his arms, and sulked, while Duo sat down in an armchair across from him. The crackling of the fireplace was the only sound between them for a while, but when Duo leaned down to pick up the cup of coffee on the table in front of him, Quatre spoke up.

"Why is it that whenever we don't see each other for a while, I come here to find you looking like you've thrown yourself off a mountain?" he said quietly, sadly. "Why don't you ever tell me about what happens to you? Am I so unimportant that you can't even tell me when you've been hurt?" His downcast blue eyes seemed as if they would overflow with tears at any given moment.

At this, Duo choked on his coffee. He had to hand it to Quatre—the actor certainly knew how to put on a compelling show; guilt was eating him up worse than the pain caused by any of his gashes.

"Come on, Q-bear, you know I tell you everything—" he said silkily, trying surreptitiously to charm the depression out of his best friend.

"No you don't!" said Quatre loudly. "You didn't tell me what happened _this_ time, just like you didn't tell me what happened _last_ time!"

"I did _so_ tell you what happened last time!" Duo fired back. "I told you I went hiking and got attacked by a bobcat! A big, rabid—"

"Oh, that's believable," said Quatre dryly. "You expect me to buy there are bobcats in Mexico?"

"If you don't believe me, then Wikipedia it!" replied Duo, exasperated. "Trowa was there, too, you know, he—"

"Right! And what was it this time? A _mountain lion_ attacked you? You didn't even tell me you were going hiking!"

"That's because I _wasn't_ hiking, Quatre, I was—"

"Was what? See, I know you're lying to me. I can tell. I'm an actor. I lie all the time!" exclaimed the blonde. Then, pointing an accusing finger, shouted, "_Liar!_"

"Why don't you just let me finish a sentence?" said Duo, feeling awfully like a husband caught cheating on his wife. The actor reluctantly settled back into his seat, still huffing. "Anyway, _like I was saying_, I wasn't hiking. I was ridge running. And it just so happens that the wind was unpleasant at the time, and I was swept into the side of a cliff just as I was landing. One of the glider's wings got chipped at the edge and I veered off course, crash-landed into some trees." Duo exhaled and leaned back into his chair. "That's all it was."

Quatre's expression remained mired in negativity.

"I still don't see why you couldn't just call me or tell me," he said.

"Well, I was hoping I would be okay by the time we saw each other again, you know, after they announced the Oscar nominees. That way, I wouldn't have to see you worried and unhappy like you are now, just because I did something stupid like ridge run in bad weather."

"Well, you're right, I _am_ unhappy," said the blonde with a hint of anger still in his voice, but Duo could tell his wrath was subsiding. Quatre reached down to take a sip of his tea and pretty soon all trace of their argument faded from his body language. "I really don't understand your attraction to ridge running, Duo. You took me once and I was terrified. It's like flying a plane you can't control."

"You know me, Q-bear,"

"Too well, probably," Quatre chuckled sweetly, bringing a smile to Duo's face. "Ever since you caught _The Thomas Crown Affair_ on that flight we took to Paris, you've been trying to embody him ever since, down to a T. But I can't believe you'd go so far as to mimic his hobbies too."

"In my defense, I don't yet have the ability to buy and demolish million-dollar boats just for fun."

"But if you did, you would."

"I certainly would, Quatre my boy, I certainly would,"

The two men clinked their respective cups together with their backs straight and their noses high in the air, imitating aristocratic mannerisms in a silly fashion—afterwards amusing themselves and laughing comfortably together.

"So, to what do I owe this wonderful visit to my humble abode?" said Duo. Quatre immediately perked up, even jumping a little in his seat in all his forgotten excitement.

"That's right, I completely forgot!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Duo, I've come to tell you that I've been getting so many fantastic offers since _The Things They Carried_ came out two months ago!"

"That's no surprise. You're a shoo-in for Best Supporting Actor this year, for sure."

"Don't be silly, Duo, that doesn't matter. What matters are these new offers! I've finally broken out of the teen idol mold and I couldn't be happier!"

"But Bear, I already know all this. Did you just come here to gloat?" said Duo with a wry smile.

"No…" said Quatre, expression faltering into one of unease.

Duo mentally smacked himself for having forgotten how sensitive the young actor was to criticism of all sorts—so much so that Quatre was always consciously self-deprecating of his own abilities. What hurt the young man most was, to Duo's surprise, not that he was ever called a bad actor, but that he was sometimes referred to as being 'artificially humble.' Duo had been there with him when he read it and could do nothing to console Quatre for at least a month.

"_I promise you I'm not faking, Duo. I—I wouldn't lie to you. I'm not pretending. Please, believe me." He said, rivers of tears flowing down his cheeks._

Duo vowed to kill the next anyone who would cause Quatre that kind of needless grief.

"Of course I know you didn't, Q," he said soothingly. "So what about these offers? Did you find one you really liked?"

"No, you see, that's just it!" replied Quatre energetically (_Thank God_, thought Duo). "I can't decide between these three roles I've been offered." Suddenly, the blonde got up from his chair and sat down next to Duo's knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. "Oh, Duo, you've got to help me, please say you will!"

At that moment, Trowa entered the room with a tray in hand to clean up the scene. The butler and his master awkwardly exchanged glances, unable to explain or comment about what exactly was going on—or, rather, what exactly it was that Quatre Winner was doing cowtowing on the floor.

"Okay, okay, you win, Bear," said Duo, bending down and grabbing Quatre by the shoulders to stop his ridiculous begging. "I'll look over the scripts with you. Just stop this—well, you know, just stop."

Quatre clapped his hands together with glee. Duo threw his butler a defeated glance. However, Trowa remained as unresponsive as ever. He scooted past the two friends and collected the cups from the coffee table.

Quatre turned to see who had entered the room and nearly doubled over in surprise. He proceeded to stare slack-jawed at Trowa, who was busily wiping the surface of the coffee table with a white napkin while balancing the tray of used cups in the other. Once the butler finished up, he caught Quatre gaping at him. He looked briefly to Duo, whose very expression—carrying a mixture of inquiry and amusement—seemed to say, _"__You can't hide anything from me."_

Blinking absently during the pregnant pause, Trowa bowed to both of them (for lack of better actions to perform). He had intended to go in and out without disturbing the two men, but unfortunately, the exact opposite occurred.

"I… apologize, master, for my unannounced arrival… You see, I did not want to intrude on your conversation," he said.

"Oh, don't be silly, Trowa!" Quatre interjected, grinning stupidly. "I… was only about to invite your sir Duo here out _for_… for dinner tonight. My treat, of course!"

The blonde actor began to fidget after his sentence, and looked about the floor as if he was searching for something—words, to be precise. Both Trowa and his master knew what was bound to happen next. Duo, upon seeing a rather embarrassed Trowa, tried to hide his amusement (albeit quite poorly).

Realizing that Duo was not going to help him any, Trowa asked, "Shall I, er, draw a presentable outfit for you then, sir?" It was, of course, an attempt to remove himself from the situation.

"Oh, no need, Trowa, it's much too early for dinner, it being eight in the morning and all," said Duo with unmistakable glee, "though I do believe Mr. Winner here would like to ask you a question."

Trowa glared viciously at Duo, who could tell even without any visible clues that the butler was, indeed, incredibly uncomfortable. Once Quatre's puppy-dog eyes traveled coyly up to meet with Trowa's, there was no turning back for anyone in the room.

"W-would… um… would you like to join us, Trowa?" the blonde asked gingerly, certainly too adorable to be resisted, much less rejected.

Duo tried to stifle his laughter to no avail. Helplessly, his laughter came out in unintelligible sputters of nonsense; but in all his anxiety, Quatre hardly noticed. The blonde was patiently awaiting Trowa's answer with pleading eyes, and the butler found himself hopelessly at a loss for words.

After a while, Trowa tore his eyes away from Quatre's and said with every ounce of stoicism he still had, "Forgive me, Mr. Winner, but I… have… duties to attend to here all night,"

Trowa excused himself and sped out of the room like a dog with his tail between his legs. Quatre's shoulders slumped in disappointment. Duo, still recovering from the hilarity of it all, smothered his laughter with one hand and squeezed Quatre's shoulder with the other.

"S-sorry, Q-bear, that's our Trowa for you. He just _hates_ fun." Duo controlled his breathing and calmed himself. "It's nice of you to always try, though."

"I know," said Quatre cheerily in an effort to hide his regret. _Poor Q, always wearing your heart on your sleeve,_ thought Duo as he combed through the actor's hair. Quatre turned to Duo with a big smile on his face to let him know he would be alright. "It's okay. I was rude of me to just invite a third party to our dinner… I'm sorry, Duo."

"Oh, Bear," sighed Duo. "You make me strange, even to the disposition that I owe…"

"Is that Shakespeare again?" asked Quatre as Duo brought out a wooden board with small squares on it. The blonde got up and returned to his armchair. "Because if it is, I'm going to have to call you an elitist pig…"

"Ah, grasshopper, you have much to learn. Elitist pig, I am not. But kick your ass in Scrabble, I will."

**xxx**

"God, I love that Quatre has a crush on you!" said Duo, still amused, as he buttoned his cuffs. "Quatre fucking Raberba-Winner just asked out my butler. My emotionless robot of a butler. And he _rejected_ him. It's too much!" Duo laughed.

"I don't think I know what you're talking about, sir," replied Trowa distantly. "Mr. Winner was only being polite."

On the thirty-inch flat-screen television inside Duo's bedroom, a scene of fire, steel, and dirt played out like a bad memory. Harried Czech voices shouted in the background while a CNN reporter interviewed a federal agent on the scene. Both men were silenced by the coverage.

"We, along with the Czech police force, are investigating the source of the bombing here in Ostrava," said the agent, a broad-chested African-American. "We are here because we believe that a terrorist force may be involved that is also on our country's Terror Watch list. We are merely aiding the Czech authorities in apprehending the suspect or suspects. That is all we have to say."

"That's strange, don't you think, Trowa?" asked Duo as his butler held up a dark violet blazer behind him. Duo straightened the collar on his sharp black dress shirt before sliding his arms into the blazer.

"Indeed, sir," said the butler as he guided the blazer to Duo's shoulders.

"I'm having a great deal of trouble trying to understand why the FBI was in Ostrava at all," said Duo offhandedly as he buttoned down his blazer. "And meeting with the man possibly responsible for… well. You reckon it's a coincidence?"

"More like a trap, sir. We know that much. Whether specifically for you or not—that we still don't know." Trowa tucked a pearly, cream-orange kerchief in Duo's front pocket. Duo raised his brow.

"_Really_, Trowa? Orange and purple? I'm Duo Maxwell, not the Duo Damsel."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but the correct color combination is _indigo_ and _Navajo white_."

"Oh," said Duo, checking himself out unabashedly. "Well far be it from me to question your avant-garde fashion statement, Coco Chanel."

Trowa ignored his comment and turned to watch Wolf Blitzer report on the situation in Ostrava. Duo followed suit.

"You know I love me a mystery, Trowa," he said, crossing his arms and watching the firemen dig through the ruined sidewalk. "Looks like I'm going to have to get to the bottom of this to get some real answers."

"Sir…" Duo heard what he knew would be the beginning of Trowa's admonition, so he quickly stood up, shut the television, and headed for the door.

"Don't wait up for me tonight, okay, Trowa?" he said, heading out of the open titanium doors without waiting for a reply.

**xxx**

That night, Quatre met Duo outside of his apartment. The two friends took a cab to their destination, the Vintage Irving—although Quatre spent ten minutes begging Duo to let him take Lightning out for a spin.

"For the last time, Quatre," said Duo, "I would rather gut myself than let you or anyone joyride in my Lightning."

"You let Trowa drive her!" complained Quatre.

"That's because I'm in charge of Trowa's pension, so whatever happens to Lightning happens to his pension."

When they arrived, Duo absentmindedly handed the cabbie a hundred dollar bill without bothering to ask for change, prompting Quatre to remark that Duo was "too generous for his salary."

"Even I don't over-tip like you do, Duo," continued Quatre as they were ushered into the premises and seated next to the exposed brick walls. "Sometimes I wonder how you can afford to live the way you do. I mean, my agent says I pull in millions, but even I can't find it in myself to spend three-hundred-thousand just to drive around in Batman's car with this New York weather."

"Style requires sacrifice, Q," replied Duo, ordering a couple of beers on the side.

"Speaking of which, I _love_ your Navajo white pocket square," commented Quatre. "Sometimes, I'm just so jealous of how well you put colors together, Duo. Working in the art industry must rub off on your own instincts."

_No doubt Trowa's going to enjoy that one, _thought Duo.

"Good lord, please tell me I'm dreaming," said a familiarly caustic voice. Duo winced. That voice, along with the hard clicking of fake designer man-heels, was definitely who he feared it was.

"Why, it is, isn't it!" said another voice in a distinctly French accent. "It's Dorothy's agent, Mr. Maxwell! And his good friend, Monsier Raberba-Winner!"

"Oh! Monsieur Khushrenada!" exclaimed Quatre, leaping up from his seat to shake the physically-imposing Frenchman. "_Comment allez-vous, Monsieur? Êtes-vous ici depuis longtemps?_"

The two men began chattering away in French, much to both Duo's and Wufei's chagrin. Duo stared questioningly at Wufei for the longest time, noticing his rival's obvious indignation. He was dressed sparingly, donning only a trenchcoat despite the terrible winter weather. He held his arms close to his body as if he were anticipating an attack.

"A rich guy takes you out for an expensive dinner date and yet you still act like you're going out with your mother or something," commented Duo flippantly.

Almost as if he had been waiting for a provocation, Wufei turned his attention to Duo, a glare plastered on his angular face.

"For your information, Maxwell, I'm here strictly on business," said Wufei coolly, catching Duo a bit off-guard. "We're here to finalize a deal on a Mr. Khushrenada's acquisition of a Matisse."

This time, it was Wufei's turn to give Duo a smarmy look, as Duo realized that he hadn't stricken a deal with a client in nearly a month. By the look on Wufei's face, he'd been rather busy in the month that Duo had incapacitated himself.

"In any case, I just have one thing to say to you," said Wufei, whose expression became oddly serious. Duo couldn't for the life of him remember the agent ever showing such a face to anyone and, least of all, him. Suddenly, the pit of his stomach churned with the same kind of alien discomfort he'd felt back in Prague.

"Take better care of yourself, Maxwell," he said, eerily, as if he could see the scars and bruises beneath Duo's clothes. "You look like shit." The agent then approached his client and whisked him away to the opposite side of the room without sparing another glance to Duo.

"I'm so sorry, Duo, I guess I just got caught up in a little francophone fun with Mr. Khushrenada. He's such a wonderful man! You really can't believe those rumors about him being a conniving demon; he's an utter gentleman, if I ever did meet one…"

"I suppose so," said Duo remotely, still pondering the exact meaning of Wufei's words. The discomfort in his stomach grew with every passing moment. But when he noticed Quatre smiling at him, he willed himself out of his trance. "What? What is it?"

"I heard what he said, you know, that Chang guy," said Quatre, taking a dainty sip of his beer. "He doesn't seem like such a bad guy after all. I hope you take his advice, because you certainly don't listen to me any these days, or if ever."

"Quatre, you are too good to be true, you know that?" said Duo with that charming-as-hell smile of his that made even Quatre's heart skip a beat. "Speaking of which, I think you should take the role of the serial killer."

"Are those two sentences even related?"

"I mean—you know what I mean, Bear," said Duo. "You've already perfected the clumsy, lovable pretty-boy already. How could that role possibly further your career? You need a challenge, something new to expand your horizons."

"But that's a huge risk, Duo, playing a serial killer! I don't know how I could possibly morph myself into that character, much less be able to sympathize with him. What if I fail?"

"Risks are what life is all about, Quatre. The greater the risk, the greater the reward, you know? Just like the risk you took with your role in _The Things They Carried_. You didn't think you could put yourself in the shoes of a soldier—well, you did! And you did a _great job_."

"But… I don't know. I just don't feel like I can do the role any justice. I don't have that kind of confidence in my abilities."

Duo chuckled and reached over to shuffle his hand through Quatre's tousled blonde locks. "I believe in you so much, Quatre. I know you can do it. And so does the whole world."

The blonde grinned with such candid happiness that Duo was actually moved by his own confidence in his best friend.

"Okay! I'm going to do it!" said the blonde, chugging down his beer with gusto. He burped, wiped his mouth, and then looked seriously at Duo. "But only if you promise to help me!"

"Of course, Q-bear," said Duo with all the honesty he could muster. "I'm here for you, always and forever. That's a promise."

**xxx**

After dinner and a second round of drinks, Duo sent Quatre away in his own cab, telling the blonde actor that he had some work to pick up from the office. Quatre naturally objected, but acquiesced halfheartedly when Duo promised to be his proxy-date to the Oscars.

As for his real reason for taking a separate cab—Duo was headed towards his usual Sunday night haunt: confession. He got off at the usual stop and walked his typical fifteen minute walk to the modest church hidden in the bushes.

But when he arrived, the chapel was unexpectedly populated by an elderly woman and a middle-aged man, both deep in prayer. There was also a young nun lighting the altar candles present. Duo, trying his best to hide his face, walked past them and entered the confessional.

Before he could enter, he felt a soft touch land on his shoulder. He swung his body around to meet the gaze of the young nun, whose peaceful expression was enough to calm the anxiety that had been stirring within him all night.

"My name is Sister Relena," she said with a kind voice—the kind of voice Duo remembered nuns having. "He has told me to inform you that he will not be here tonight."

"Who's not here tonight?" asked Duo, pretending to draw a blank.

"The one you are seeking," she said with a knowing smile. "The father."

"Oh," replied Duo disappointedly. He bit his bottom lip as he struggled with his next question. "Will he be here later tonight?"

"I am afraid that is not possible," she said. "You may pray for penance with the others, if you choose. If not, then I bid you God bless you and good-bye." She turned away and began lighting the rest of the candles around the altar.

Duo left. As he hailed another taxi to get to his next destination, he felt the discomfort he had been experiencing since his run-in with Wufei was turning into substantial nausea. The sensation only worsened when he found the hotel room empty. The nausea was then joined by an ominous paranoia that disconcerted him enough to prevent him from leaving the hotel room immediately. He waited—his entire body ill, but he waited—for that face to come waltzing into his sight, to prove to him that all his suspicions were false; that he had seen something else. Not him. Not _him_.

But nobody came to ease his sickness. After what seemed like hours, Duo forced himself to go home. His only goal was to forget the day in its entirety, because it held within it even more questions than he was ready to find answers to.

The creaking open of his iron-clad door sounded as heavy as the weight on his shoulders. He saw Trowa sitting by the fire, reading and looking peaceful. His thoughts strayed and lingered to that still image of serenity bathed in amber.

Thankfully, Trowa didn't seem to notice his entrance—or if he did, knew better than to approach him. Duo, likewise trying to be considerate, crept as quietly as he could past the hallway entrance and up the stairs.

"Sir," he then heard out of the blue. Duo looked down to meet Trowa's chilling stare. "You had a visitor tonight."

"Oh?" Duo felt his knees get weak. He gripped the banister tightly. "Was it a client?"

"No, sir, I don't believe it was."

"Did they give you a name?" He prayed inwardly that Trowa wouldn't recognize the distress in his voice.

"No, sir," answered the butler, "They left a note. I placed it in your room."

"I see. Thank you, Trowa."

"If you don't mind me asking, sir," said the butler rapidly, as if he knew Duo was purposely cutting their conversation about the visitor short. "Just who is this person?"

Duo paused and didn't answer. The butler began to move away from the stairs, his visible eye downcast. Duo made a small sound of protest. Trowa looked up to him with the same cold gaze, but it was expectant—of the truth, no less.

"What… what did it sound like?" asked Duo carefully. "The note, I mean."

"Like an apology, sir," replied Trowa, who remained at the foot of the stairs, waiting for his real answer. But Duo swallowed the truth, because he could not find it in himself to speak it—fearing that if he did, something valuable would break. He knew better.

"Can't say I know him then. Probably just someone from the office. One of the rookie agents, or something."

At that moment, Trowa's eyes expressed an inimitably betrayed emotion. The butler said no more and headed back towards the living room. Duo, wracked with guilt, resigned himself to his bedroom.

_I'm sorry I couldn't tell you._

_There are a lot of things going on right now._

_Don't get too angry._

_Tell me when you'd like to meet again._

_T_

**TBC**

!**NOTES**! _Edited 8/23/08 – Polished the writing. This chapter left me dissatisfied. _Twenty-three and one-fifth pages later comes this next installment of _Sinnerman_… I really do apologize for the amount of time between chapters. Summer school ended, now school is starting… Isn't school just the worst? (I'm only say that because I'm not working full time, which is probably worse, depending on the job.) Well, this chapter was a lot of set-up and characterization. There are mysteries abound in later chapters, if it wasn't already glaringly obvious… The little torture scene up there, I had kind of a tough time with. Let's just say Duo's really strong and he could crack old men's bones with the shit he has in his treasure box o' weapons. By the way, yes, Duo has the wrong impression of the relationship between Quatre and Trowa—or does he? ;) If you couldn't tell, I tried to put in as many smidgeons of boylove as I could in this chapter. So I'm vicariously living through these characters—so what! Also, "Q-bear" is taken from the nickname of my cousin. I thought it was a cute-ass nickname, so why not. And, good lord, I know, I'm killing your with this. How many goddamn Heeros are there? Mysteries abound indeed…


	4. deuteronomy

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episode deuteronomy

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_orange eyes of embers gleaming in the night  
guard us until break of dawn, blessing the ground where we stay  
the eastern sky is glowing now in reddish shades of grey  
with promises of life and love—and i want to cherish the day_

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The winter chill passed through the windows of the T Salon's tall glass windows and roughened brick interior like an unwelcome stranger. A snowstorm had burst through Manhattan with such force earlier in the day that it shut down schools and had deicing trucks littering the streets trying to clear roads for traffic. It was for days like this that Duo reserved his visits to the city's teahouses, when people would rather sit by their own fireplaces than traverse through knee-high snow.

He brought a cup to his lips and barely winced when the scorching meld of tropical flavors swirled in his mouth. He put the cup down and picked up a copy today's _Times_ another patron had left sitting on the table. He thumbed through the newspaper slowly, carefully; a random passerby would have thought he was a typical, politically-savvy Manhattanite, but that was hardly Duo's case. He was, in fact, just biding his time.

He tried to find something interesting in a report concerning the DOW's record nine-hundred-point drop, the sharpest drop in fifteen years, but a flash of olive green and a Burberry pattern streamed into his vision like a well-dressed messenger of doom. Fear and relief accompanied the arrival of that familiar face, but Duo had to suppress conveying both feelings in order not to ruin his resolve.

Which was a pretty difficult thing to do, he realized, as the rustling of high-end fabrics approached him with cautious steps. But he bit his lip and pretended not to notice the blue-eyed man with the mussed brown hair staring at him, no doubt expectant of _some_ kind of greeting, who finally seated himself upon cognizance of Duo's purposeful ignorance.

After a noticeably prickly pause, Tsubasa cleared his throat. "Usually when I'm invited out somewhere, I'm supposed to be entertained," he said dryly. "Surely you didn't plan on ignoring me all afternoon? I walked a damn long way through this snow to get here."

_He's definitely _not _Heero, _Duo thought, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile at Tsubasa's long-winded sour reply eased Duo's fears, in that it managed to be _adorable_ more than suspicious. It allowed Duo to forego the idea—at least, for now—that the man sitting before him with the most precious flippant look on his face was not responsible for the events in Ostrava that nearly took his life.

Duo, not wanting to waste any more time himself, swiftly folded the paper back into its original shape. He placed it on his lap before meeting Tsubasa's stare head on—and with a pleasant smile no less.

"You're cute when you try, you know," said Duo, a twinkle in his eye.

"I'm not trying." Tsubasa replied, terse and unimpressed.

"Well, then, I think that makes my point all the clearer." Duo's smile remained. "How was your day?"

Tsubasa paused before declining to respond to Duo's earlier comment. "My day's going fine," He sighed and began to unwind the scarf around his neck. "The whole city's bound to get snowed in today, so this may be the only thing I'll actually do."

"Don't worry; it'll be worth your while," said Duo, earning him a slightly wary glance from the other. Duo took up his cup and leaned back against the chair. "What'll you have?"

"They have Oolong here?"

Duo tipped his head towards the literal wall of tea in the back area of the establishment, amused. Tsubasa's cheeks turned pink, but he got up and walked hastily towards the cashier's counter before Duo had a chance to call him that abominable word again. While in line, he glanced over to Duo, who was contemplatively drinking his tea.

He, himself, pondered what this meeting could possibly be about. Duo hadn't even bothered to ask for his name up until two weeks ago. Similarly, it was the first time in nearly a year that Duo had actually brought him to his house (at least, he assumed it was his house—after all, how rich could he be that he owned two homes in Manhattan?) And now, despite his unwarranted cancellation, Duo had personally invited him out here. To a teahouse. In _daylight_.

He certainly hoped that this meeting—whatever it was to Duo—was not what _he_ thought it was.

Anyway, he'd find out soon enough. When he sat back down, Duo's expression became immediately as breezy as it had been when he'd left to get his tea. It lost every trace of solemnity that Tsubasa swore he'd spied while he glanced at him in line. He avoided eye contact with Duo as he poured himself a cup of tea.

"How's the tea?" asked Duo as Tsubasa took his first sip. Tsubasa shrugged.

"Good."

"Not great?"

"Prices don't always reflect quality."

Duo chuckled. _Or maybe he's more like Heero than I want to admit_.

There was that name again: Heero. However dangerous this train of thought was for Duo, he was a creature driven by desire. No matter how hard he fought it, he always gave into the fantasy—that the man sitting opposite of him, adamantly avoiding his gaze, was somehow Heero in disguise. Sometimes no comparison could be made between the two men at all, but _this moment_—the very moment the skies opened up to spill a ray of sunlight across Tsubasa's downcast eyes—was among the handful that managed to make him wish that such comparisons would be possible beyond appearances.

"Aren't you afraid that someone will recognize you?" asked Tsubasa, catching Duo off-guard. At this, Duo's brow peaked. "They'll have a field day if they saw you here with someone else…"

"Why? Am I someone worth recognizing?" he asked, the suspicion returning. Of course, Duo took every precaution, as usual, to avoid being seen, even if that meant having to drag out a large coat and hat to hide as much of himself as possible.

Tsubasa rolled his eyes at Duo's comment, a little too petulantly than Duo was used to seeing.

"Try picking up the Enquirer one of these days. You're practically on every cover with that little blonde thing."

"Oh." Duo paused, chewing his bottom lip, apparently not expecting _that_ part of his life to have been revealed in such an impersonal fashion. "So how long have you known it was me?"

Tsubasa smirked. "A while. You're a little hard to miss, Rapunzel." Duo chuckled nervously instead of replying and poured himself another cup of tea. He saw Tsubasa looking outside the window, his expression remote.

"For the record," said Duo, wanting to break the uncomfortable quiet. "I'm not dating Quatre. I never have, never will. As far as I know, he's free as a bird. We're just good friends, that's all."

Tsubasa turned back to him, his brow raised this time. "What? Do I look jealous to you?" Duo shrugged, a playful smile on his face. "For the record, I'm not."

"I imply nothing," said Duo. Duo bent the upper half of his body and rested his elbows on his thighs. He spent a good, long while just staring at Tsubasa, who had resumed watching the deicing trucks push ice out of the streets outside. Duo swallowed but found his throat dry, despite all the tea he had been drinking.

"I apologize for last week," said the other abruptly, continuing a trend of being rather disarming for Duo.

Dry as his throat was, now that Duo had to talk about the question they'd both been evading, it felt thick with suppressed sentiments. But even he understood that the conversation was necessary, especially concerning what he was planning to do.

"I got your note," he said. "Didn't really explain much, though."

Duo noticed Tsubasa stiffen significantly.

"In any case," continued Tsubasa dismissively, his tone becoming as cold as his demeanor, "I'll take better care in informing you next time."

"What happened, anyway? Did you have another appointment you forgot to tell me about?" asked Duo simply.

He had consciously phrased the question to sound noncommittal and unassuming, but even then Tsubasa didn't immediately reply—prompting Duo's suspicions to return with full force. His eventual reply would not help ease Duo's fears, either.

"Things are like I wrote," said Tsubasa, meeting his inquisitive stare. "I've just had a lot of stuff to deal with lately. It's not all about you, you know. I've got my own things to deal with. Not all people can live the way you spoiled celebrities do."

This time, Duo fell quiet, but his eyes did not leave Tsubasa's. He gently pushed his elbows against his knees and pulled his body upward to rest against the seat once more. Tsubasa's stare, full of icy conviction, did not waver.

"It seems you've painted a pretty ugly picture of me in your mind, then," said Duo softly, understandingly. He watched Tsubasa's reserve become instantly perturbed by the need to respond although he knew Duo wasn't going to let him. He just smiled. "No worries. After today, you'll no longer have an obligation to comply with my bratty whims. Right now, I just want you to listen."

Tsubasa didn't reply. Duo could tell by the look of wrath on his face that he wasn't planning on sticking around any longer.

"This will be my last proposition to you, Tsubasa," said Duo. The blue eyed man's glare sustained. "You have two choices: you can either get up and leave, and we'll never cross paths again… or you can do that, but after hearing why it is I chose you out of all the poor, miserable, good-looking souls in New York City."

"…"

"Well?" asked Duo.

Tsubasa rolled his eyes. "_Well_, Morpheus, if I haven't left yet, what does that tell you?"

"I thought you were waiting to make a grand exit."

"I'm not staying to hear you call me a queen, asshole," he snapped acerbically. "If you're going to take my time, don't waste it."

Duo laughed without a hint of regret or recognition of the consequences of his proposition.

"It's not exactly a secret," began Duo. "It's just that people always trivialize matters of love into something logical and simplistic; something with an answer; something they're not and never will be."

Tsubasa remained quiet, gazing steadily at him.

"But if you do hold it in for fear that someone will do just that, it will become just as you've said—a secret—without ever meaning to be hidden. And then it becomes the one thing that has the ability to break you down in the end."

"So why tell?"

Duo shrugged. "It's about time."

**xxx**

"The first rule I learned as a Marine, I didn't learn in the classroom. I didn't learn it during basic. No one taught me simply because no one _could_ teach me. It was a lesson you learned the first time you set foot on the field of battle; a lesson you learned once a bullet cut through the side of your armor and drew the first drop of blood from your body without permission; a lesson learned once you held onto one of your comrades, whispering false promises into his ear about survival even if half his body's already been blown off by an enemy grenade.

Kill or be killed. That was the first rule.

Simple; straightforward. But you had to sell your soul to learn it. Only when you realized that you'd been abandoned by your country in the Sand Land, you knew there was no other choice possible. So you sold it gladly, with a smile on your face, otherwise you ended up being the poor fuck blowing a hole through the back of his head with his own government-issue rifle.

But you know, the funny thing was, I didn't really care much for that first rule. The first rule I always believed was reserved for people who were afraid of death. It applied to people who believed they had something to lose, but that wasn't me. At that point in my life, I had only one thing to lose, and I would have given anything—paid any price—to keep it safe.

That was when I learned the second rule of being a Marine: to protect the man beside you at all costs.

That was when I learned my reason for being. He's the reason I'm alive. He's the reason I chose you. He's the reason I'm here with you, now.

His name was Heero Yuy."

**xxx**

July 16, 2018 at the 0243 hour. It's the fifteenth year in Iraq. The 6th Force Reconnaissance platoon had been deployed early in the month to bring down target Fallujah, which had come under siege by Al-Qaeda in 2016 and reconstituted itself into a Taliban stronghold. It has since become the most perilous area, given that the factions fleeing from Baghdad now found an impenetrable asylum.

Not that it's necessary—they're more aware now than ever that U.S. troops have grown weary over the last fifteen years of a war they have no interest in fighting. They know that the constant redeployments by an economically-sagging government back home have been helpful only to vindicate their cause—and not the cause of the United States. They're confident that they will capture Iraq now that America's power has weakened significantly. They believe their victory is near.

Yet you can find no such sign of weariness in the eyes of Maxwell and Yuy. After six years of active duty, the two men had hardened themselves—their souls, minds, hearts—beyond all weaknesses of the average human being. As the humvee drifted off-road from the edge of Baghdad towards the fire-lit horizon leading to Fallujah, their rifles clinked together—a comforting symphony in a sea of humid silence.

As Mueller observes the clinical calm which had beset itself upon the demeanors of both men sitting behind him, he swallows back a question he now finds to be rhetorical.

_Aren't you two even a little bit scared?_

He isn't about to admit the cold shivers of fear racing through his body to the two men. He knows he's in the presence of two men who would be warriors, not a mere follower like himself; he seeks to be like them, and so he will not speak of fear.

He absentmindedly wrings his wrists. After a while he realizes that Maxwell is staring right back at him with that cheeky grin plastered widely across his face, a Cheshire's smile illuminated by moonlight.

"Nervous?" asks Maxwell sincerely, without a hint of disdain. At this time, Yuy turns his attention to the Mueller, who stops wringing his hands and takes hold of the tip of his rifle. He tries to hide his embarrassment by clearing his throat and turning away—to no avail, though, because Maxwell's hand is already sitting comfortably on his shoulder.

"Remember what I told you last time, Mueller," says Maxwell, cupping the other man's cheek and swiftly redirecting it to face his own. Maxwell pinches his chin and looks him directly in the eye. "There is no way I'm gonna let you die here. You got that?"

This is not the first time Maxwell has said these words to calm him. But this is the first time Mueller can't bring himself to say anything for fear he will appear unmanly; unworthy of his title as a Marine.

Mueller shrugs off Maxwell's hands with a snort, trying to hide his embarrassment as effectively as possible.

"We're here," says Walker, from the front of the humvee. He turns to them and gives a signal to go ahead and get into formation. Maxwell slaps his knees happily and drags his rifle behind him as he rolls off the side of the vehicle. Mueller takes a deep breath and sheaths his own weapon into the scabbard on his back, turning to jump off as well—until he feels the small tug on his shoulder.

"There is no way I would let Duo die," says Yuy, rather unexpectedly and seriously. Mueller looks at him, confused.

"I don't—what?"

Yuy shrugs. "If Duo doesn't die, you won't die. So there's no use in being nervous." He jumps off the humvee and leaves Mueller stunned, shocked, and more than a little suspicious.

**xxx**

Moonlight suffocates the arid night wind as muffled, yet thunderous, footsteps bound towards the decimated perimeter of the city of Yusufiya, now overrun by the very enemies they had—until lately—successfully kept at bay from the Fallujah region. Maxwell's platoon has been on their feet, running under cover of night, with mounting determination to take hold of the Iraqi stronghold at Fallujah once more by establishing control over surrounding areas.

The Marines heaving beside him were among the first that knew immediately that, the moment they lost the city of Fallujah, their war would never end. Since the devastating multiple-bombing of the Euphrates bridges that destroyed hundreds of retreating military vehicles and, with them, his fellow American fighters, Fallujah had been in the forefront of their understanding of the new crisis: Al-Qaeda had not only grown, but their intelligence was sharper, more accurate than ever before; their organization was tighter, smarter, and more efficient despite the sea of empty desert separating Baghdad from the mountains of Waziristan; and their appetite for violence was dragging the already-withdrawing troops to stay put and defend against their imminent, grisly extermination.

This time would be the last time. A final, no-holds barred re-destruction of the city that has come to be known as the Ruins—in the name of freedom, peace, and democracy.

Their first target—a set of American military sniper towers and outposts built in Yusufiya to mitigate enemy combatants in the southern border of Fallujah—is within shooting distance. Maxwell's squad, flanked on all sides by another squad headed by Yuy, is shrouded in darkness. Their infrared sights are the only ways they are able to sense each other. Their orders are to take hold of the first tower—now a decaying, ten-story block of cement that served as a lookout point for the city—which is rife with Al Qaeda footsoldiers.

Yuy counted thirteen men on the ground with flashlights, scouting the area. Maxwell whispers an order to his squad to slow down movement and lay low as they approach the hundred yard mark. The voice of their battalion's commanding officer from earlier in the night, Major Zechs Merquise, replays in his mind.

"_Surround and conquer is your tactical goal,_" instructed Merquise, stern yet pressing, to Maxwell's platoon. "_Bait, switch, and kill—and if you value your life, if we have taught you anything of importance, you will prove it today. You will be faced with several guards performing a sweep of the periphery. Each will be carrying a flashlight. Your goal is to disable those guards without letting the flashlights drop. That is what you have trained for these past few months. This simple little task is vital for your survival. Your special operations responsibility is to minimize the death toll of this attack as much as possible. And that is what you will do, or die trying to do, tomorrow morning in order to ensure the safety of our victory in Iraq and our freedom. Good night, gentlemen, and good luck."_

Maxwell cocks his rifle. "Mueller, take down 3 o' clock," he murmurs, scoping out the area around the guard through his sight. "On my order—"

But before Maxwell is able to finish, he is cut off by a trembling whisper. "Sir—Maxwell—I—I can't…"

Maxwell pauses. He cannot see Mueller, but he knows the fear that regularly shakes the confidence of his long-time friend; and yet he cannot find the words to say now that the fear is threatening to destroy their first chances at Fallujah.

_Shit_, is all that goes on in his head. His eye is trained on the guard's every motion, ready to take the first shot to signal the attack. He cannot bring himself to order a frightened comrade to get into close contact. _Shit, Mueller, I told you I wouldn't let you—_

"Maxwell—take the shot."

Through his sight, Maxwell sees a lone Marine stealthily creeping up behind his target, still undetected.

"Take the shot _now_."

He breathes deep and shoots the silent mark of death straight through the skull of the unsuspecting guard. A moment of silence after the shot—followed by a thud to the ground. Yet the light holds steady at waist-height, dimly illuminating the surrounding area. Maxwell watches as it paints a slow figure 8 on the ground and breathes a sigh of relief. He hears the soft patter of footsteps and the whispers of "ready" and "fire," and feels a great weight lifted from his shoulders.

Maxwell rushes to the side of the Marine who braved abandoning his position to cover for Mueller. Around him, silenced shots fire into the night, bringing down the enemy lookouts successfully.

"Thanks, man, you really saved my ass back there," says Maxwell, clapping him on the shoulder. The Marine turns around and gives him a thumbs up.

"More like Mueller's ass," Otto chides in his familiar drawl. "Tell that chickenshit nonhacker we're even."

"You can tell him after we storm the shit hole," says Maxwell. Otto punches his arm and proceeds to light his path to the building's entrance.

"Yuy, get your guys to clear the entry path of light—my squad, stay low and get ready to take the main door."

Maxwell takes a deep breath, steadying his grip on the M4 Carbine in his hand. He remains stationary while footsteps gather behind him; he can feel the blood, sweat, and tears already flowing freely from each and every one of them though they stand only on the brink of battle. Bright lights circle around him and his squad like fireflies glimmering in the dead of a summer's night.

"Ready?" whispers Maxwell into the dark.

"Hell no, sir," replies Walker, nudging Maxwell forward towards the door. "But let's get this shit over with already!"

"_Now!_"

At the very moment the lights on the ground shut off abruptly, resounding crashes break the night quiet like the shrieks of a banshee. The Marines shatter the windows on the ground floor with the butts of their rifles in seamless unison. Urgent and frightened voices fill the air, joined by the sound of grenades being unpinned and thrown into their midst.

"Duck!" Maxwell shouts, covering his ears and head in a kneeling position beside the entrance of the building. In no less than ten seconds, the heavily barricaded metal door burst open, carrying half of a burning corpse with it as it tumbled on the hard, dusty ground.

Immediately after the door bursts open, Maxwell takes up his gun and begins shooting from his position. Half-illuminated in gunfire beside him, others shoot down dirty, white-clad figures streaming down from upstairs through the broken windows. Maxwell gauges that bodies in front of him are falling faster than they're coming down from upstairs. It's his signal to initiate a takeover of the floor.

"Getting the fuck in there," he shouts, "Cover me!" Without waiting for confident reassurances of backup, he rolls into the room and instinctively rushes to the area below the stairs. The nook ensconces him in enough darkness that the enemies, in their frenzy, do not sense his presence.

From where he is positioned, Maxwell can see the faces of his friends and fellow Marines, confident despite the extreme volatility of their situation. He understands that, amidst the deafening violence before him, their operation is going as smoothly as they could expect so far.

From where he is positioned, he can feel the thunderous whirring of the air support bringing down the insurgent squads. He can feel the unmistakable drop of their footsteps on the rooftop and the dull chorus of combat boots surrounding the enemy with a clear plan to lock them in the building with no escape route possible but a jump to their deaths.

From where he is positioned, he shoots down body after body without a hint of or the time for remorse, repeating to himself that their lives are a necessary waste. Their brown, blood-spattered, wind-chapped lips cry out in a language that his ears have listened to for six years and his lips never bothered to learn. He can hear the noises of American war modernity crushing beneath its feet the antiquated AKs to which their enemies cling. He can hear shouts and orders in his own tongue claiming a victory amidst their recent slew of failures in a land he refuses to call home.

Everything is exactly as Maxwell had pictured in his mind, and it gives him as much relief as a good fuck would have. These days, nothing tastes better than the feeling of victory, no matter how small.

**xxx**

The lookout tower is now swarming with Marines. Maxwell's Captain is on the radio with his second-in-command without a hint of relief in their voices, because they know as well as everyone else that the worst will come at dawn. The very moment of daybreak, they again will be the first to be on the offensive at the gates of Yusufiya, and then to Fallujah. There would be no moment of actual rest; there simply is not enough time. The enemy does not sleep—they know it well—and so neither do they.

Yet, Maxwell never gives more than a minute to thinking about the danger of anything. After six years of guerilla warfare with the 'sandmen' as his day-in, day-out ritual, war's as routine as brushing his teeth in the morning. For him and many others, gunshots have become like music to the ears, careful movements in the sand like a ballroom waltz.

After the rooftop squad clears the top floor of still-live combatants and begins to move crates of weapons down the building, Maxwell and Yuy follow orders to cover their platoon from above until they move out in the morning. The rest of both their squads are positioned in the floors below them. When they finally arrive at their destination, Maxwell dramatically throws himself to the ground, heaving from loss of breath.

"Good… fucking… lord…" huffs Maxwell, spread-eagle on the floor. "_Why_ don't… these _fuckers_… ever build any _fucking_… _elevators_…"

"They had one." Yuy, following behind him, walks to the shattered windows facing the troops on the ground and sets most of his equipment down beside it. Duo props himself up on his elbows with a look of disbelief on his face.

"There's a fucking elevator?!" asks Maxwell, incredulous. "There's an _elevator_ and you _let_ me _walk_ up the _stairs_?!"

Yuy doesn't look at him. "We blew it up," he replies, "And you deserve it for being lazy."

Maxwell sits up, sweat dripping down his chin. "I _deserve _it?" He begins to laugh but it doesn't stir Yuy to return his gaze. "Man, you'd make a terrific priest, you know that?"

He rises from the floor and pulls up an empty crate to the window beside Yuy. He unties the rifle attached to his back and drops the magazine onto the floor, replacing it with a new one from his side pocket. While going through the movements of reloading, Maxwell's breathing slows. He finishes without a word, enjoying the calm of the moderate quiet he is experiencing.

The rustling of clothing gives him a start; he looks up to meet Yuy's particularly intense gaze head on.

"You're too reckless recently." Yuy says this plainly, sounding almost patronizing to Maxwell. His partner smirks at him.

"I'm sorry, are we talking about _me_ here, Mister I'm-Gonna-Drive-My-Humvee-Through-A-Building-Full-Of-Armed-Crazies?" Maxwell jokes, shaking his head.

"You didn't wait for us to clear your entrance."

Maxwell knows precisely what Yuy is referring to, but merely shrugs his shoulders in response. He rests his rifle on the window sill and props the butt end on his raised knee.

"There was no need for me to wait," he says, turning his head to grin at his solemn, blue-eyed partner.

Yuy turns away from him, chilly as ever. "I won't always be there."

The comment earns Yuy a sigh. "I didn't plan on dying on this mission, of all missions, you know. I imagine my death to be of a grander scale. I didn't make it through Al-Basrah to die on something as simple as this."

Yuy is quiet for a while before he says, "Don't talk about it like that."

"It? You mean dying?" He understands Yuy's silence to be an affirmation. "I think we're a little past conversations about the fear of dying. Jeez, you're the last person I'd expect to hear those words from."

"People like you…" Yuy mumbles, barely audible. "There is something other than this for people like you."

Maxwell's breath gets caught in his throat upon hearing those words escape from his partner. He can feel the heat swimming to his cheeks and his palms in a cold sweat. He's afraid to look in Yuy's direction for fear that he may end up doing something both of them would regret.

_If I look at you now_, thinks Maxwell, his heart aching a little bit. _I _know_ I'm gonna rape you._

Instead, he opts to gaze out the window (yet not without great effort). He sets his chin down on his arm, resting both on the windowsill. As he watches bodies move about like shadowy snakes far below him, he mulls overs Yuy's previous statement.

"People like me," he mumbles into the crook of his arm absentmindedly. "What makes you think you know what kind of person I really am?"

"Because I know you." He feels Yuy's weighty stare before it sets on him, followed by a sudden discomfort. "And I know this is not where you wanted to be."

Maxwell's chuckle is dulled the fabric covering his mouth. "Oh yeah? Are you telling me you wanted to be here, in this dead zone, risking your life for god knows what anymore?" He turns and grins dryly at Yuy, finally finding the moment for which to wear his familiar mask.

"There's no point in asking that. You can't change the past."

"Okay… well, let me try again, then," says Maxwell. He turns to face Yuy this time, indigo eyes shining with certain curiosity. "If you could be out of here tomorrow, where would you go? What would you rather be doing?"

Yuy stares at him blankly, distantly. "There's no point in asking that also. I will be here tomo—"

Maxwell interrupts him with a groan. "Oh, for god's sake, Yuy, how many times do I got to tell you that not _every_ question has to have a practical point!" He straightens up, animated by the conversation, and puts his hands on his chest. "Look, take me for example. If I could be out of here by tomorrow, you know where I'd be? I'd be in fuckin' Cabo with other people my age showin' off my goods for Guys Gone Wild and throwin' back as many drinks as my liver can possibly handle in one night. See? It's easy. Just try it. Just say _anything_."

Yuy gazes at the floor with the same steady lack of emotion, almost as if everything Maxwell just said had gone in one ear and out the other. A minute of no reply passes them by, peppered with faint honking and the shouting of orders from the ground.

_Great_, thinks Maxwell, _there goes that chance._ He sighs heavily and begins to turn to his lookout position. _Just when you think you'll finally get him to open up…_

"I… don't know."

His partner's baritone catches him off-guard, as it almost always does. Maxwell looks at him, shocked and somewhat overwhelmed. It is the first time Maxwell can remember Yuy answering a question with a sincere answer—not even an unassuming "I don't know" had ever passed his lips. There is a softness in Yuy's countenance tonight that Maxwell has experienced very rarely—and very rarely does he ever react correctly to it.

This time, though, he remains quietly granting the other his full attention. Maxwell watches the slow rise and fall of Yuy's breathing in the darkness before the voice continues a story that Maxwell has been waiting to hear their entire time together.

"I don't know anything else… other than this," says Yuy, somber yet sure. "No time in my life before joining the Marines is worth reliving. But, other than this, it's the only thing I know."

Maxwell is afraid of pursuing him, but more afraid of never taking the chance to get past the one exterior he's never managed to crack. Charily he queries, "Wasn't there even one moment in your life when you felt happy?"

Yuy makes a sound Maxwell has never heard before—maybe a small laugh or a grunt; he honestly could never tell the difference. Nevertheless, Yuy answers him, much to his surprise.

"I don't know what happiness is, either."

Maxwell shakes his head, in denial for his partner. "There is no way you don't know what it's like to be happy. I mean, I know you're one cold bastard, but I always thought that was—you know—just a character flaw or you shtick or something. There must be _one_ time, _one_ thing even, that's made you happy!"

Yuy turns to him and shrugs. His piercing blue eyes spare no room for interpretation: they told Maxwell that his words are as frank as ever.

"…No."

Maxwell restrains the urge to embrace his partner out of both pity and sexual frustration. He feels as if he's being emotionally fucked by the man in front of him, staring at him with naked, smoldering honesty.

"What about now? Do you think since joining the Marines you've been happy?" he asks with trepidation. He knows the answer he wants but he knows he won't receive it.

When Yuy doesn't immediately reply and instead turns his attention back to the ground below them, Maxwell understands that the conversation is officially over. The thick emotion that held him at bay before has dissipated, as if it had never existed.

After a couple minutes of silence, Maxwell finally moves to take up his rifle once more, only to be stirred into shock by another one of Yuy's consistently unexpected replies.

"I'm not sure if it's what you consider happiness," he says, "but here, I can protect other people, and I'm good at it. I like having a purpose."

Maxwell makes a sound of protest but is cut off by a signal of silence from Yuy, who points outside to a pair of headlights heading towards their part of the border. He receives the green light to incapacitate that humvee from a distance. Subsequently, all lights within the building's facility are shut off and the troops on the ground quickly arrange into combat positions.

"Car bomb, probably," whispers Yuy as he takes careful aim of the approaching vehicle in his sight. "If I don't blow the car, you need to take them out."

Maxwell nods and fixes his rifle on the sill. At that very moment, he catches sight of a figure moving in the dark across the room, towards a stray AK-47 hidden underneath another body.

Panicked, Maxwell shifts position, knocking Yuy's rifle out of his hands, and turns to the direction of dying insurgent just in time to see the machine gun in his hands, pointed right at his partner's back. Maxwell barely aims before he shoots at any particular part of him, hoping to hit anything to keep the shot away from Yuy.

"Maxwell, what—!" Yuy begins to shout but is cut off by the deafening scream of death and the sound of several rounds from the machine gun in the dark.

The rounds hit the already-crumbling ceiling above Maxwell, showering him in debris. He's disarmed by the close, rapid firing of the gun, prompting a slow reaction to the piece of heavy concrete that hangs above him like the sword of Damocles. He isn't quick enough to notice; he can't move away.

In a matter of seconds, Maxwell feels his back pinned to ground; he's unable to breathe, but at the same time cannot feel any resulting pain—just a strange, comforting warmth.

_Am I dead?_ He thinks. He opens his eyes, his vision blurred by dust, but the unmistakable smell of guns and roses filled his nose faster than his eyes can adjust to the scene. He watches the slab of ceiling concrete rolls off Yuy's back like a slow-motion nightmare. He looks at the motionless head of his partner lying on his chest.

_No_.

"NO!" Maxwell screams and embraces Yuy's body in order to carefully roll around and set him on the floor. When he puts his fingers to Yuy's neck to check for a pulse, he's relieved, but when he sets his eyes on his partner, no such feeling remains.

Yuy, face already lacerated by falling concrete and shrapnel, convulses and coughs up blood onto his uniform. Maxwell, tears burning in his eyes and panic heaving in his chest, takes him up into his arms.

"_Heero, please, don't go,_" he whispers directly in his partner's ears. A loud explosion shocks the building, and urgent shouts from below clutter the night silence of just a few minutes ago. Maxwell ignores them all, clinging to his partner. "_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…_"

The radio in Yuy's pocket goes off, the voice of their Captain yelling loudly, "_This mission is snafu; get the fuck out of that building and get on the ground!_"

"Oh, God," cries Maxwell, frantically scrambling to grab any rifle to carry with him. He slides Yuy onto his back in time to see Walker come up the stairs to herd the rest of the men out.

"Fuck, they fucking got _Yuy_? How the fuck?!" He exclaims, signaling for Maxwell to follow him out. "You need to get him the fuck out of here and onto the chopper! I'll call for them to stand fast 'til you get there!"

Maxwell nods at Walker and is guided by fellow Marines to the safe route out of the building. The further they go down the stairwell, the more he realized how fucked up things got; the fourth floor is full with the sound of bullets.

"You're almost there, Corporal," says the fresh-faced younger man leading him, probably no older than Maxwell himself. "We gotta get you the hell out of here—we think they're gonna blow this building up."

He leads Maxwell, with Yuy still on his back, to the rear exit, where the chopper was less than a mile away, awaiting them. He gives Maxwell a thumbs up before returning into the building.

"Wait!" Maxwell says. "Why are you going back? You need to get out of there too!"

"I can't, sir, my brothers are in there," he says with somewhat of a sad smile. "Take care of yours, sir. _Semper fi_!"

The words break his heart even more, because he's seen that look before: _that kid's committing suicide_. He turns around briefly to gauge the chaos that had come to fruition in a matter of minutes after their success, a scene that decimates what's left of his emotional reserves. And then he sees the unambiguous missile launcher on the back of the enemies' stolen military humvee taking aim at the building.

He bites his tongue hard enough to bleed and prays for the men inside, because he values the fading life he's carrying on his back more than his own or anyone else's. Wrought with guilt, Maxwell runs like hell for the helicopter.

But he's not fast enough. A wave of power and a blast of sound hefts Maxwell and Yuy along with him from the ground like an invisible hand. He's thrown aside like a castaway doll, face grating against the sandy ground. He groans, dust and smoke filling his lungs as he struggles to overcome the pain.

_Get up_, he says to himself, swallowing back the ache of his own injuries. _Get him out of here._

He picks himself up, cringing as the harsh heat emanating from the tower, now a fiery inferno, hits him. He crawls over to the only other body in his vicinity, praying desperately with rapid breaths.

He holds onto Yuy's barely-breathing body for dear life. He strokes his partner's head, clutching him in a tight embrace, as he hears gunfire open up above him on the ground. He begins to cry, unrestrained, into Yuy's shoulder, like a child.

He looks up in order to find a way out, yet expects to meet a bullet head-on from the barrel of a raged militant. Instead, he finds himself in a sea of MARPAT, surrounded by his fellow Marines. They're yelling reassuringly that he's got to take cover, that they've got his back.

Through the tears pouring down from his eyes, he can see muddied figures running towards him like angels rising with the dawn. He peers down on his partner, wetting the bloodstained face with salty tears. He wipes away the dampness gingerly.

"Stay with me, Heero, don't fall asleep yet," he coos amidst the raucous noise of battle around them. Yuy's eyes flutter open in recognition of his voice. Maxwell smiles audibly, hugging his partner into a better sitting position. "They're coming for you. You're going to be okay. Just stay awake. Stay with me, now."

Maxwell flags the corspmen down with his free arm. "Corspmen!" he yells, throat raw with emotion. "_Corpsmen_, over here! Hurry!"

The medics rush to his aid and takes Yuy from his arms into a makeshift gourney. The Marines around Maxwell and the medics shout for them to move as soon as possible to the safe zone to get the wounded Yuy out of the battlefield.

While the corpsmen secure Yuy to the gourney, the wounded man's hand limply tugs at Maxwell's wrist. Maxwell, cheeks streaked with tears, blood, and dirt, takes Yuy's hand between both of his own leans close to the other man's face.

"I lied… I—" mumbles Yuy hoarsely, grunting as the corpsmen strap him in. "I wish some things were different… but I…"

Maxwell makes hushing sounds, not realizing how tight his grip on Yuy's hands has become. "Don't… don't try to talk anymore, Heero…"

Maxwell's hold on Yuy is broken by the rise of the gourney. Maxwell looks up and watches Yuy fade away into the distance.

He doesn't hear it, but he swears he sees the words on Yuy's lips as he disappears into the horizon: _I'm happy to have met you_.

He never had to hear it; it's enough that he remembers it that way.

**xxx**

Duo takes a long, labored sip from his cup of tea, relishing the last drop like the moment permanently seared into his memory. He set the cup back down onto the coffee table separating him from Tsubasa, who remained somberly silent throughout the whole recollection. For a while, he avoided looking at the man who'd just spent the last hour listening to the most painful story Duo had ever dared to tell. Inwardly, he felt cold and empty; he felt like an abandoned child shivering in the rain. But on the outside, to the world he had to live in, he held onto a smile. The memory would not break him today.

Mostly out of pity for himself, he starts to laugh heartily, causing Tsubasa to cast him a skeptical, unamused look. The look on Tsubasa's face prompts him to laugh even harder.

"There's nothing particularly funny about anything you've just said, so I don't know why you're laughing like an idiot," commented Tsubasa irately. "It sounds to me like you've just admitted that you _used_ me to fuck the regret out of yourself 'cause I look like the boyfriend whose death you feel so much unecessary guilt for."

"Yeah, you're right."

Duo stared at him wanly for a moment before letting out a big sigh. "I can't ask you to understand or even accept any justification for what I did to you," he says as he leans in as close as possible to the other man, who scarcely even flinches at the unexpected motion. Duo takes the scarf resting on Tsubasa's armrest between his fingers and absentmindedly plays with it. "But when I made love you, the happiness that followed was the closest I'd ever come to feeling the way I did when he was still alive. When I still had him, even if I could never be with him the way I was with you.

"When I was with him, I lived for the second law—which, by that time, had become the second law of just being alive for me. Every day I spent with him is more real to me now than even this moment. This moment is a dream. It's less real than everything I remember when I hold you in my arms and pretend that for one moment in time—in whatever shitty hotel we may be in—that you're _him_.

"If you're asking me why I'm telling you any of this, there's a very simple reason. And I don't expect you to understand or accept it, either. I invited you here today to tell you this story because it's the closest I can ever come to being able to explain it to Heero himself. This way, I can finally move on from all the old demons of the past and try to find my happiness elsewhere."

Tsubasa snorted, still wholly unimpressed despite the deeply heartfelt confession of the other man in front of him.

"You're right, Maxwell, I don't understand or accept anything you've just said, mostly because it's all bullshit," he snapped, snatching his scarf from Duo's hands. He closed the distance between them even more, an icy glare stitched into his brows. "You know that I'm not Heero. Telling me any of this won't make a difference. You could have gotten a shrink and said all this shit. There's no reason you should have said any of this to me if all you're going to do is _leave_. Nothing's changed for you. You're still guilty and Heero is still _dead_."

Yet Duo did nothing but smile at him. "I knew I could count on you not to give a fuck," said Duo with a grin. He kissed Tsubasa quickly, squarely on the lips and stood up. He buttoned up the front of his peacoat and put his newsboy cap on his head.

"Enjoy the rest of your tea here; it may not be the best you've ever tasted, but it's good for a day like today. Consider it a parting gift," he says in a typically airy tone that Tsubasa hated more than anything. Duo's blue-eyed ex-lover refrained from looking at him.

Duo bit his lip, knowing he would regret it if he said it, yet even more if he didn't. "If things were different, there would have been room in me to treat you the way you deserved to be treated." He said this loud enough for Tsubasa to hear.

Duo smiled sadly, but Tsubasa never turned around to see.

**tbc**

**NOTES**

Hey all... anyone still reading? Heh heh. Yeah, I know, I was gone for like, two months, good lordy lord. BUT MY MAN OBAMA KICKED SOME SERIOUS ASS! Glad to have been a part of this legendary GOTV operation; I got my share of the 2008 pie. November 4th was a night I will never forget. Wait--I'm supposed to be talking about this chapter. Well... it was hard to get back into the groove, but I'm in there. Things may be even more pertinent now; we don't know where anything in that region is going now. What I'm assuming in this fic is that the last 8 years of the war being mishandled turned into a worse set of situations in the future of the region. Nothing seems to be going right. The Special Operation they went on with the whole flashlight thing--I know, it was a stretch of the imagination, but that's what we authors do every once in a while. This chapter is what I like to call the "Catholic Guilt" chapter. It screams Catholic guilt. Besides Quatre, Duo's the only other person who could spend so much time being guilty for things out of his control. I don't really have much else to say except that I hope someone is still reading and that I'm sorry for the long delay. I am going to try my darndest to push my baby Sinnerman through to its timely end, which thankfully I already have drafted. Don't lose faith in me, because I have not lost faith in you!

OBAMA/BIDEN 0-12!


	5. judges

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

episode judges

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_i wake up all fear and dread-locked  
by all the things i cannot talk about  
we built our house of cards on ignorance,  
a landfill of deceit; the walls are hollow,  
and we listen, worry what they will secrete_

_woe, woe, woe, woe, is we_

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_Duo, confident enough that the plan was going accordingly, unpacked his bag of deadly toys. Safely hidden amidst the leafy camouflage, he arranged his weapons, sat, and waited. Through his PSG-1's sight, he could see clearly into the open windows of Sanc Estate. Contrary to its outside appearance, the estate contained within it a habitable residence—at least, in Duo's opinion._

He had already begun to survey the contours of the mansion when the oddest sensation struck his stomach. It was as if he'd once been in this very position, looking into this very same building. And as he peered into each individual window, the feeling spread throughout his body. The sensation became less déjà-vu than palpable dread once he set his sight on a certain room, glittering gold even in the shadow of night.

_Wait—night? How long have I been here?_ He thought.

He took his eye off the sight and immediately felt the stiffness in his muscles, no doubt from having stayed in the same position for so long. The ache was worst in his lower back, which was positioned (stupidly, in hindsight) against a large, sharp rock. He yawned, realizing he was definitely feeling the fatigue of waiting too long in the same spot. He decided it was time to stop waiting—yet he couldn't for the life of him remember what he was actually waiting for.

His hand moved to disassemble his rifle, but a strange curiosity froze him in place. He took a deep breath and looked straight ahead into the room full of golden furniture, still empty and unlit.

_Another close look can't hurt before I go. Maybe I'll figure out what it is I'm waiting for._

He brought the rifle up and set it on his knees. He peered through the lens, tracing the edges of the aged stone windowsill lining the room. When his crosshairs hit the center of the window in question, Duo realized that he was not looking at just an empty golden room anymore. Staring back at him was a pair of familiar blue eyes—and then his heart stopped beating.

_Tsubasa?_

The man in the window offered a grave smile and shook his head slowly. Either disbelief or relief gripped him—he couldn't decide which. He could think of only one word, one name:

_Heero._

Unable to look away, he saw the words form on Heero's lips.

"What are you waiting for?"

Light flooded the room as if by magic. It blinded Duo, pained him, but he could neither pull away from the sight nor shut his eyes.

His body felt as strained as his eyesight, like he was being stretched by a vacuum into another dimension. He could feel his throat struggling to shout, but it was silenced; he could feel the cold, night air flowing into his lungs, but he could smell nothing. The unnatural throe continued to attack him until he felt like vomiting everything inside of him.

And then it stopped. He could smell again, hear himself breathing deeply. His eyesight remained blurry and pixilated, nauseating him significantly. He shut his eyes and clutched his stomach, stumbling forward—

_Wait—why… why am I standing?_ He battled to open his aching eyes, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. The lights must have turned off some time after the pain stopped, gauged Duo, because the vision before him was wrapped in darkness. He stumbled to the side and hit the length of a table or a cabinet, something lower than his arms. Dizzy as hell, he pivoted and fell on top of it.

As he was lying on top of the icy, smooth surface, his vision cleared. He saw that he was bent over on a table shining gold under the moonlight. He could see his reflection on the table's surface, unusually haggard and thin. Sickened by his own reflection, he put his head down on the table, closed his eyes, and drifted off to what felt like sleep.

When he awoke, he was no longer even in Ostrava—he was back in New York, in a room more familiar to him now than his own bedroom. He opened his eyes and saw the room in the Waldorf-Astoria where he and Tsubasa would meet and—

_Wait—how did I… I thought I was…_

"Stop asking stupid questions." The voice did not belong to anyone he knew. It belonged to the only person he didn't know, the only person he lost before he could ever know him—in every sense of the word. It belonged to the voice of a ghost he was never meant to see or hear from again.

And it hurt more than he'd ever imagined it could.

"Please, don't," choked Duo, balling up the feather-soft sheets in his hands. "You're gone, and I'm not here…"

Warm hands tickled his thighs underneath the sheets, heating up Duo's lower half. "Face it, Duo," the voice whispered, but Duo heard it clear as day, "you _like_ this."

"No…" he whimpered, cringing at the unfamiliar caress of his dead, blue-eyed partner. He could feel Heero's fingers massaging the hard curve of his cheeks, urging his legs apart. In his head, Duo screamed of resistance—but he was nothing short of putty for Heero's rough hands.

Duo's hardness strained against the mattress, already wanting release from nearly ten years of desperation. Heero's breath against the small of his back and the unwelcome, penetrating sensation of his fingers sent electricity and need coursing through Duo's body. Every pore on Duo's body oozed desire for the man who smelled like a garden amidst a battle. By the time that Heero had positioned himself behind Duo's elevated lower half, his wet length pressing hard into a place where no one ever dared to venture, Duo was crying halfheartedly-memorized prayers.

"God, please, stop," A broken sob escaped his lips, muffled against the thick of the pillow he clung to. Duo knew this was a dream but could do little to stop his perverse reactions. The powers-that-be were knowingly working against him as furiously as Heero, a relentless bullet on the fast-track to claiming his sanity. The heat of him—the _smell _of him—the feel of him—they tore at his insides, churning like a tidal wave of bliss and pain.

"You want this, Duo," Heero's slick hands gripped Duo's shoulders tightly, pulling the braided man back to arch against his body. The blue-eyed man smiled into Duo's neck, biting hard as his mouth traveled upward to his ear. "You always have."

Heero was right. Duo never wanted it to end. But he knew it would, and he was tired of watching it end. He was tired of how real it felt to be taken by Heero in the most humiliating way possible, to be exposed as the sick, twisted, and pathetic human being that he had always been. He was tired of wanting, of needing it.

Duo turned his head and caught a glimpse of cobalt blue before his mouth was overtaken by the forceful violence of Heero's teeth and tongue.

_But I can't live without it._

Heero flipped him on his back, despite his wordless protest. Duo's hands searched around him for pillows, anything to hide his visible shame. But Heero's arms tightened around Duo's legs, pinning them in an incredibly straining position. Duo couldn't bring himself to fight back. He was locked into Heero's intense gaze, eyes half-lidded in ecstasy and throat raw from reaction to every vehement thrust. Fervid from pleasure, Duo stopped resisting. He reached up to touch the face of the man he loved, to savor his visceral abandon until it was once more squandered by reality.

But when he laid his hand upon Heero's cheek, it passed through his lover as if he were a ghost. The room cooled abruptly, and so did every part of his body. Heero felt like a corpse although he looked alive. The thick mane of swarthy brown began to fall off in chunks from his dead partner's head, as if it were being buzzed off by an invisible razor. And the deep blue eyes intently boring into his soul were washed over by a rather well-known violet hue he knew better than his own name.

His fingers flexed against the cool surface of the mirror suddenly in front of him, trying vainly to reach the man on the other side. Gone was his long, hazelnut braid, replaced instead by a detestable whitewall haircut unfit for the delicacy of his youth. His face was dirty, wounded; his dust-studded uniform barely fit his thin, muscular frame. He stood tall before Duo, aloof but confident, with the cocky grin of a high-rolling gambler. He gave Duo a thumbs up, turned around, and began to run towards an unknown horizon.

Duo pounded on the mirror, calling out after him, but no sound came from his mouth. Duo clutched at his throat in confusion.

"He can't hear you," said a voice. Duo looked up to see who it was—and his stomach tightened, thick with nausea once more. "He doesn't listen to people he doesn't know."

Heero stood before him as Duo remembered him on the last day they were together: bruised, bleeding, and broken. Blood seeped through large portions of Heero's uniform, creeping through the fabric. It dripped from all sides of Heero's head, staining his grim lips dark red.

"That's impossible," said Duo, surprised at the sound of his own voice. "He knows me. He _is_ me."

"No," said Heero, somberly shaking his head. "He would have been responsible. He would have saved me."

Heero limped towards Duo, passing through the glass into Duo's world with ease. Duo was frozen in place, tears unwontedly trickling down his cheeks, as Heero approached him. He couldn't look away from Heero, who was decomposing with every step he took. He stopped in front of Duo, panting heavily and smelling like burnt hair; and then he fell forward into Duo's arms and hugged him tightly.

Heero pressed his rotting cheek against Duo's, whispering softly into his ear, "He would have never betrayed me."

Duo felt the embrace cut short the moment Heero stuck a knife into his back.

**xxx**

A sharp vibration against the small of Duo's back woke him. His body bucked into consciousness, fingers grasping between the sheets and his naked skin to search for the cell phone blasting "Aerodynamic" into his spine.

_I don't care how cute you are, Q, I'm gonna kill you for calling me so damn early,_ he thought, groaning as he grabbed the phone and wrangled it from the sheets.

"Hullo…?" he answered groggily, expecting an onslaught of cheer that would almost certainly ruin his morning mood. But for thirty seconds, nothing but a crackling static filtered through. Duo sat up, instantly prompted to lucidity by the silence. "Who is this?" He demanded, already in the process of dressing himself.

A chuckle stopped him. "**Hide as you like in that little room of yours. We know who you are. We know you're involved with the God of Death**."

Duo's blood ran cold. The garbled voice meant to mock him laughed at his silence.

"**Your butler did a number to keep us from being able to access any of your files, but sooner or later we're going to figure out who he is and you're going to go down with him anyway**," it said, sing-song. It was trying to piss Duo off and doing a dandy job. "**In return for making it so hard for us to get our information, we went ahead and fried your entire system… and returned the favor to your little manservant.**"

It cackled heartily. "**If you even dare to comply with any more of the God of Death's deals, famous or not we will get rid of you in whatever way we like**."

Duo didn't bother to reply. The cell phone was on the floor before the voice could give its warnings, and Duo was flying out of his room and down the stairs like his life depended on it, because it did. _Trowa_, was the one name repeating in his head this time, accompanied by the nightmarish nausea attributed to someone else—someone already gone, someone he'd already failed. Not Trowa.

He could barely breathe; the world around him moved viscously as he made his way through the house he had shared with his best friend—his _family­—_for so many years. The feelings were too much for him, as they always had been. His life with his green-eyed confidant played out in his head like a memory being laid to rest, like a broken record repeating the saddest part of a forgotten song.

_Not you_, he thought, his heart breaking as it was so often used to doing. _This was never meant for you!_

When he arrived, he realized the doors to his basement had somehow been bypassed. The trespassers had entered in cleanly, easily. Duo tried to turn on the lights, but they had no doubt smashed that to pieces, too. Sparks of electricity lit the interior of the basement, emanating from destroyed computers, television screens, and torn wires that now lied at the foot of a desk chair, swinging slowly around.

"_Trowa_!" cried Duo breathlessly, running as fast as he could down the length of stairs to the middle of the room. He could make no sound as he watched the chair swivel around to reveal his trusted friend, his hands and feet bound by steel wires, his face bruised, bleeding, and broken. Duo fell to his knees in front of his butler and buried his head in his lap. His stomach sank.

A rustling of fabric stunned Duo. He looked up to meet Trowa's green eyes, shining kindly in the darkness the way Duo had memorized.

"I'm still here, master Maxwell," he whispered, his voice like china breaking in a quiet room. "Can't very well… leave you just yet."

Duo put a finger on his mouth to silence him, and stayed holding him until he could feel Trowa's breath as his own, until he felt that Trowa was as real as he'd always been.

The scene that had played out in Duo's head so many times was palpable now. There had always been a certain danger that Trowa wasn't real, or that he would cease to be in the most untimely of all times. People—the ones that mattered—slipped through his fingers all the time, like grains of sand: too small to hold onto, to grasp as they fell from between his fingertips, to pick up from a desert of disappointments and heartaches.

The young, bloodied man he was holding in his arms now was the one person that he'd hope never to lose like that; the one person perhaps big enough not to be lost among all the others. Yet despite giving him a heavily barricaded home, a protected identity, and the best combat training short of the military—everything Duo could do in order to hide him and secure his life—Death still managed to find him and mark him as his own.

He felt Trowa's ever pained convulsion as if it were his own. He mind was blank with rage and grief as he carried his butler up the stairs and into his room, where they would be more safely contained. The titanium doors compressed behind Duo as he gently laid Trowa down on his bed. Duo kissed his fluttering eyelids, whispered, "I'll take care of you, now," before he got up to run the bath.

When Duo returned to Trowa's side, his breath was momentarily caught off-guard by the tragic juxtaposition the morning had given him: here lied his stoic confidant with the most peaceful expression Duo had ever seen on his face, yet it was accompanied by multiple bruises, probably a few broken bones, and more cuts than Duo could count on his hands. The sight inspired fear in Duo, because it was an expression he was familiar with. It was the face of a man who'd accepted his death. But the warm hand that reached limply out to hold his ensured him that that was not yet the case.

Duo undressed him (save his underwear, for propriety) and cautiously submerged his badly-wounded body into the bath. Trowa was noticeably pale against the black ivory of the tub; Duo tried in vain not to let the sight before him upset his stomach. When he moved to squeeze out the blood that had collected on the sponge into a pan at his feet, he felt absolutely wretched.

_I should be the one in the tub,_ he thought, an exquisite onus weighing down the corners of his mouth. _You should be the one standing._

"The pain is not yours to bear, sir." The voice caught him by surprise. "The wounds are all mine, if you couldn't tell." Duo turned to face him, a relief flooding throughout his body at the half-smile playing on Trowa's lips. His eyes were full of life despite his deathly pallor.

Duo returned Trowa's attempt at a smile with one of his own, albeit restrained to more of a grimace by an initial worry that had yet to fade. "They should be mine," he said rather seriously. "The pain should be mine, too."

The reply earned him an honest chuckle from Trowa, which was something of a rare event to witness even for Duo. His hand stopped scrubbing the blood off of Trowa's chest for a moment to take in the humored timbre.

"Frankly, sir, it was tedious work cleaning up after you. It's nice to be on the other end of the bargain, even if I had to get a few of my ribs broken," said Trowa.

Duo found himself able to afford a genuine smile. "I should have known you were just trying to make yourself out to be the hero," he joked, dabbing at an open cut on Trowa's collarbone. He then finished cleaning the wounds on Trowa's chest area, calmed significantly by his butler's willingness to talk.

In the last few weeks, Duo had noticed an increased reticence in his butler; he wasn't dense enough not to notice that it had been spurred by his unfortunate introduction to Tsubasa and Duo's uninspired, feigned ignorance. But it was particularly difficult for Duo to discuss Tsubasa because of the mitigating circumstance surrounding their relationship. All the things associated with Tsubasa, Trowa could not know about in full; in part because Duo wanted an avenue for self-preservation, but in large part because it necessitated that Duo reveal how selfishly he considered Trowa. He kept Trowa sheltered in a bubble for a reason—to keep him safe from his name, his curse, his private chaos.

Yet even his latest attempt to save his loved one from himself was looking to be a failure, now.

As he brushed the underside of Trowa's chin, his finger idly traced the line of his jaw. Trowa gazed at him as if he understood all of Duo's unsaid explanations.

"I'm sorry, Trowa," he said, low and wrapped in pathos. "I should have never involved you in this the way I did…"

Trowa closed his eyes and submerged his body further into the water. "You give me very little credit, sir," he replied. "You act as if you have made all my choices for me."

"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been involved."

"I entered your world on my own accord," said Trowa sharply, decisively. His visible eye shone with the same determined light of half a decade ago, when Duo first met him. "Your life was not without its dangers before you met me. It was no more different then than after you asked me to join you."

Duo smiled. He acknowledged the argument defeated, if only by Trowa's insistence on shouldering the blame. "Still," he said, continuing down Trowa's body to clean his torso. "I could have done a better job with teaching you how to kick ass, at least."

"They weren't planning to kill me," said Trowa. "Otherwise, it would have been a different story. I let them bind me so that I could see what it was they were looking for. They wanted information. I had already destroyed most of it. Resistance would have been futi—ah!"

Duo jumped back, shocked by Trowa's sudden outburst; he had been so intently listening to Trowa's explanation without so much as a second thought that he didn't realize _where_ exactly his sponge hand had begun scrubbing. Trowa, whose pale skin was growing rosier by the second, instinctively drew up his knees to hide his embarrassment.

Duo withdrew his hand and started laughing. Trowa grumbled but refrained from speaking directly about it. Duo, still amused, ran soap into the water to hide Trowa beneath the bubbles. Duo squeezed out the sponge and resumed cleaning Trowa's lower body, despite the butler's protests.

As he finished Trowa's right leg, Duo turned to him with an annoyingly suggestive grin. "I bet you'd rather have Quatre doing this, don't you?"

Trowa flushed noticeably red in response. "That—nonsense!" the butler exclaimed, visibly flustered at the mention of one Quatre Raberba-Winner. Duo wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

"You're fooling yourself if you think you can fool me with all your running around behind my back," said Duo, a presumptuous look on his face. It scared Trowa a little, especially when Duo leaned in close to his ear and said, "And with all your secret little make-out sessions that you think I never saw."

Trowa turned to him, red with anger or humiliation, or both—Duo was too busy laughing to care.

"I think we're done here," said Trowa tightly, attempting to remove himself from the tub. Duo shook his head and held him down.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Trowa, you don't walk away from your master when he's trying to take care of you. That's just rude."

"Well, then, it would be greatly appreciated if you would refrain from making such ludicrous declarations about Mr. Winner and I, sir," the butler replied, still beet red.

"So it's not official yet, huh?" asked Duo, impetuously pursuing the conversation. "Don't worry, I can tell he's all ga-ga over you. And I can tell he makes you happy, which is the most important thing for me."

Trowa had to hand it to the grinning fool—he knew precisely when to pry information out of someone, even Trowa himself. He needn't even use force if he wanted; he was _that_ good. He often wondered if his master had learned such things in the Marines, but he rarely ever received answers when it came to that period in Duo's life.

Trowa leaned back into his previous position in the tub. "He's a very good person," he said, earning a questioning hum from Duo, who was busily scrubbing the dried blood off his left foot. "Mr. Winner, I mean."

"Oh, he's an angel, alright," replied Duo. "But you know that as well as I do."

Trowa made a sound of agreement. "I was surprised."

"About him being nice?" said Duo as he turned around and squeezed out the bloody water into the pan. "A dog in China could tell he was nice just by looking at him. Not even him. Maybe even just a drawing of him, or a picture of his foot, or something."

"No, not about that," answered Trowa, quieting slightly in mild discomfiture. "During the Darlian deal, Mr. Winner came here to see you, but you were in Europe. I let him in and he—I—we—"

The stammer was enough for Duo to understand exactly what he meant. Duo stared at him, astounded and slack-jawed. "You sly bastard," he said accusingly. "I go off to London for a week and you take advantage of poor Q? You weren't sick at all when I called to check in, were you? You weren't red because of a high fever! You were—" Duo feigned a horrified gasp. "—you were _doing it_ with Quatre!"

Trowa shot him a deadly glare. "What are you, sir, a child?"

"Proper even when derisive," said Duo, amused. He reached over Trowa's legs and unplugged the drain. "There's no way Q could have refused you for any longer. There's no way _anyone_ can refuse you, you perfect man, you."

Trowa offered a small laugh. "We both know that's not true."

Duo felt the subtle tug of Trowa's toes on his drooping robe as he leaned over to run clean water into the tub once more, but he couldn't bring himself to immediately look at his butler. If he did, he was sure he'd end up doing something both of them would regret. He had too much at stake in Trowa to let his basest desires take advantage of something that precious to him. But during moments like these, when his self-restraint was tested by his unsteady emotions, there were certain things he knew to do in order not to exacerbate whatever the temptation may be.

"In any case," said Duo cheerily, as if no moment of discomfort had occurred, "I've got the perfect plan to help things along with you two!"

"That's not necessary, sir, we—"

"Don't be silly, Tro, what kind of a boss would I be if I didn't even let you have the kind of love life thirteen-year-old girls only dream of?" He joked, splashing water onto Trowa's chest. "Think of me as your fairy godfather, okay? If things go according to my plan, soon enough, it won't be me with you in the bathroom when you're wet and naked."

Trowa, wide-eyed in shame, grumbled. "You, sir, are an insufferable human being."

**xxx**

After Duo had finished bathing Trowa, he robed his butler and carried him back to his large bed, despite the butler's vocal protests. "I can walk just fine," said Trowa several times in various ways, all of which were duly ignored by his braided master. Eventually he succumbed to being treated like a child, his body truly unable to struggle or fight back. Lying on Duo's bed, Trowa closed his eyes and nearly fell asleep but was awoken by the creaking of wheels.

Duo wheeled in a steel cart containing cleansing agents, towels, and bandages. He pulled up a chair next to Trowa, who was peacefully staring at Duo's tv-sized digital clock hanging directly above an even larger tv.

As Duo began to bandage Trowa's arm, he said, "I don't know who's watching me." Trowa looked at him inquisitively. "I know they're connected to the government somehow. Probably not actual agents. Hired hands, most likely."

"That makes sense. They were very sloppy. I don't suppose they even recognized me, much less cared who I was."

"And on top of that, they called me, even though I've run circles on military tech for years,"

"What did they say?"

"They said they knew I was connected to the God of Death, meaning they don't have any conclusive evidence. But they've finally connected the dots. And strangely enough, they stayed on the phone long enough to be traced."

"They were probably trying to convince you to follow a trail."

"Yeah, but to what?" Duo sighed heavily, pausing to put rub his forehead. "I'm tempted as hell to check out where that trace leads, where the mess they left leads me. At least then I'd get an answer as to who might be behind all this shit."

Trowa's silenced signified opposition. "You ought to lay low a while, sir," advised the butler.

Duo looked at him with furrowed brows. "What is it?" he asked. "You think it's one of my clients? You think they cracked our voice distortion?"

"No, sir, I highly doubt it was one of your clients," replied Trowa. "They know little as it is. And they've been targets for interrogation for far longer than any recent day."

Duo cracked his knuckles, focusing his apprehensive stare at the floor. "Right," he said, finally breathing a sigh of relief. "They don't know anything."

"But that doesn't mean there isn't some other source."

The statement took Duo by surprise. Trowa gazed at him levelly, coolly—a departure from the tangible warmth of their bathroom conversation. Somehow, Duo had been waiting for things to go in this direction; but that doesn't mean that he didn't dread having to give the explanation for the question resting on Trowa's lips.

"You know him, don't you?" asked Trowa, causing Duo's throat to dry immediately. Duo's gaze dropped to the floor. "The man who came to see you, who left the note for you."

Duo remained silent for a moment, his head in his hands. "Yes, I know—knew him," admitted Duo, his face plain with regret. "Yes, I lied to you that night when I said I had no idea who he could have been. And I'm sorry for that, I really am, it's just—"

"Complicated?" said Trowa, sounding rehearsed. The reason had been given so many times before as a poor excuse for an excuse that it was hardly unexpected by the butler. It was Trowa's attempt at forgiveness, yet Duo still couldn't manage to face him directly.

"He was—his name is Tsubasa. He and I—we were…" Duo gulped, his throat itchy with guilt. "…Involved. But it was superficial; I never—we never were officially together. That, I would have told you. But he—he wasn't important, so there was no reason for you to know, do you understand?"

Trowa gave no visible response, but a part of him continued to harbor disappointment against his master. "It's none of my business, sir. I only bring it up out of suspicion. You alone are fit to estimate the dangers of your acquaintances." Duo smiled lopsidedly at him, somewhat thankful. Trowa continued. "I am also aware that you would have informed me about any important persons in your life, as would be natural. So my suspicion is drawn when non-important persons show up to your doorstep asking for your attention."

"Anyway, what I mean to say is, he's not somebody we need to worry about. In fact, I doubt we'll ever see each other again."

Trowa nodded understandingly, but was inwardly skeptical. Neither of them spoke much during the duration of the dressing of Trowa's wounds. He watched his master wrestle with the turmoil so obviously occurring in his mind, but Trowa was wont to remain quiet. He knew if he pressed any further he'd receive no substantial answers. He could tell Duo's mind had gone adrift a long time ago, anyway.

**xxx**

"I'm sorry," he says, breathing in a sweet lungful of Tsubasa's _Boucheron_ cologne, a scent he'd managed to deduce after an afternoon at Macy's. He nuzzles his nose into the crook of Tsubasa's neck, lightly kissing his collarbone. "I didn't know it was such a sensitive subject."

"A guy tells you he cried over _The Lion King_ because it's the first time he saw anything die and you think it's appropriate to laugh your ass off at him?" Tsubasa haughtily rejects his advances. "God, you're an asshole. I wouldn't hang out with you if you paid me."

Duo's hand creeps over his stomach and forcibly presses Tsubasa's body to his own. "Good thing I'm not an asshole, then." He says, sucking on the supple flesh of his upper neck.

Tsubasa scoffs, attempting to wriggle out of Duo's embrace. "You're lucky you're hot," he says, moaning appreciatively. "I need money, but I don't need it badly enough to be treated like shit."

Duo freezes in place. He positions himself on top of Tsubasa, a hurt look on his face. "Have I treated you badly?" He asks, sincerely concerned. Tsubasa gazes back at him, unwaveringly emotionless. It is a look that almost makes Duo leave, for reasons not safe for Duo to start thinking about—especially now.

Tsubasa smirks at him. "Not enough to make me leave."

"Good," whispers Duo, lowering his head down far enough to barely touch lips with his blue-eyed lover. "Because you should know how much I appreciate you by now."

"You 'appreciate' me?" asks Tsubasa, hands tenderly caressing the muscles defining Duo's back. "That's something I've never heard before. Usually, when someone wants something from me, they go all the way—'I love you,' or 'I can't live without you,' or 'You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.' But you just _appreciate_ me…"

Duo held Tsubasa as close as possible to himself, conspicuously gyrating his lower body against the other in a way that was supposed to signal an end to conversation and the beginning to other forms of communication; however, Tsubasa didn't seem to respond in kind.

"I _must_ be doing something wrong," he muses out loud, weakly pushing against Duo's suggestive movements.

"No, you're not doing anything wrong, but I wish you'd _do_ something," jokes Duo, sliding down to take Tsubasa's erect nipple between his teeth. "Or some_one_. Namely _me_."

"As if you'd ever let _me_ do _you_," retorts Tsubasa, body arching into Duo's skillful mouth. With eyes half-lidded in lust, Tsubasa looked down at Duo. "Why, do you want to—"

Duo stops suddenly, pinning Tsubasa completely to the bed. Dumbfounded, Tsubasa struggles to free himself but Duo's too strong.

"What are you—Ah!" At this point, Tsubasa begins to laugh hysterically, due in large part to Duo's relentless tickling. He bucks and twists underneath Duo; his laughter is frenzied, youthful. In an unexpected upset, he sneaks his hands around Duo's waist and rolls them over, putting himself on top of Duo. Duo stops tickling him and tries to calm his own laughter down.

Tsubasa, flushed beet red, glares angrily down at him, looking as if he's about to rip Duo's eyes out. "You—!" he exclaims heatedly, breathlessly. Duo expects to be hit or cursed at; but no such thing happens. He is, instead, surprised when Tsubasa's countenance softens.

He leans down to whisper in Duo's ear, in certain terms, "I appreciate you too."

**xxx**

"—Sir?"

The voice jolted Duo back into reality like a splash of cold water. He took a moment to compose himself, to figure out what exactly was happening around him. Remembering then that he was in a car and that the old man curiously eyeing him from the rearview mirror was his driver, no doubt asking for a clear set of directions, Duo shook himself from the clutches of his daydream and responded as casually as possible, "Yes—what?"

"Just thought I ought to tell you that we're coming up to the red carpet now. Shall I fetch you and mister Barton at midnight?"

_That's right,_ he thought, finally recalling the situation at hand. _Today is Quatre's big day._ He smiled at the driver, who was not Trowa, and responded brightly, "You'll be picking me up a bit earlier than mister Barton. But before that, I have another request to make, and that is for you to drop mister Barton off first, turn around, and drop _me_ off."

"That is a ludicrous request, sir," said Trowa, who was sitting beside him with his arms crossed, stoic but noticeably uncomfortable. "It will take you a useless three hours to turn around in this traffic."

_And also Trowa's big day. _Duo observed his butler, who he noticed had healed amazingly quickly—only two weeks had passed, yet there was barely a scratch left on his face. His visible eye gazed at Duo from beneath a well-kept coif, which made him look like royalty in his one-button Zegna suit that Duo had tailored to fit the butler like a well-pressed glove. Much to Duo's surprise, the butler opted to match his suit with a thin, black tie with amber stitching atop a white dress shirt. Classic, streamlined, and yet marked with Trowa's personal aesthetic—he looked the part of a star, an Adonis afloat on a sea of imperfection. Even Duo found it difficult to resist the temptation of sidling up to him like a crazed fangirl.

But he chose just to smile contentedly, privately; he was genuinely happy at what had become of the masochistic circus freak he'd first met in the open plains of the Midwest. "Now, now, Trowa, let's try and remember the plan, shan't we?" he replied, pretending to flick invisible lint off Trowa's suit. "You're about to be thrown into the spotlight. I want the world's first glimpse of you to be taken in without me as a needless distraction. I'm telling you, they'll fall in love with you!"

"If I may, sir," said the butler, catching Duo's wrist mid-flick. "This is an incredibly stupid and dangerous idea."

Duo shook his head and maneuvered Trowa's hand around, trapping it in his own. "The clock's ticking for me, Trowa," he began, idly rubbing Trowa's wrist. "By tonight, we'll figure out that it's the government that's watching me. They're sifting my accounts now, and they'll probably freeze them by tonight. I'll find they have a search warrant for the house, so I'll have no place to stay—and neither will you."

"We've already taken the necessary precautions with the house, sir," replied Trowa, pulling his hand back. "And where would you go if not home?"

"Trowa, this can't involve you." Duo sighed heavily, fatigued. The butler sat still and didn't reply. The gravity of Duo's words weighed on both their shoulders.

"Being beside Quatre is the safest thing for you. When interrogate you, they'll see that all your records show that you lived in Nebraska for years before coming to New York recently to pursue life as a writer, working as a personal escort on the side, for me and for Quatre. And if they ask you about the God of Death, you feign knowledge. And in the end, you'll tell them what all the other clients tell them: you don't know who he is. You needed the money from me, was all, you know nothing else. And Quatre—well, they can find for themselves that he's not involved." Duo put his hand on Trowa's knee, his expression reminiscent of grief. "I need you to be safe, above all other things. My battles aren't yours to fight—and if I lose you to them, I'll never forgive myself."

Trowa's countenance stiffened under Duo's gaze. The unspoken words between them remained, like a tightrope billowing between two skyscrapers trapped in a hurricane. Trowa's eyes shouted in anger at his master's selfishness, in frustration at not being allowed to be his protector; Duo's pleaded softly. _We can't fight this together, you and I,_ they said, _because I'm fighting for you as much as I'm fighting for myself._

The butler turned away and replied evenly, "As you say, master Maxwell."

"Good," Duo said, content. He clapped Trowa's shoulder and pointed outside, to where bright lights shone brighter than the sun and the screams of fanatics stifled the air with obsession. Duo grinned at his butler, who, despite his convincingly stoic calm, was balking at the sight of the media jungle. "Well, go on then, mister Barton, and blow their minds silly!"

Trowa was about to step out, but paused suddenly. He turned to Duo for one last question before they parted. "Where will you go now, sir?" He asked.

"Home, to grab the last of my things," answered Duo, no sign of trepidation in his voice although it loomed in the back of his mind. "And then I'm off to Howard's."

The last thing Trowa remembered as he stepped out onto the red carpet was the somber gaze they shared, full of understanding and devoid of antipathy, sentiments which disappeared once he turned and faced the crowd awaiting him on the red carpet.

Almost immediately, the cameras swarmed him, wondering who he might be. He attracted them like a bright light in a swamp of flies, no doubt with his god-like beauty (without which they would likely have passed him by as just another face in the crowd). But, as Duo had predicted, the curiosity of the paparazzi, of the fanatics, was successfully piqued.

Trowa, perpetually unruffled, made his way down the carpet without offering so much as a breath to the questions that were being screamed at him. But the raging media, masochistic as ever, pursued him as he threaded through celebrities of all ranks, easily breezing by the shoulders of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie as if they were shoppers at a local grocery store. Even the cameras could tell: the mysterious green-eyed man was looking for someone specific. They wanted to know _who_.

When he reached his destination, Trowa pensively slowed to a stop. The clamor around him kept growing, but he wrote it off as more a natural outcome of being in a situation such as this; however, their presence became bothersome as he mulled over how to make his presence known to one Mr. Winner, who was charming the hell out of Maria Menounos.

"You must be so excited for tonight, Quatre!" she said, her toothy smile blinding in the spotlight. "I have no doubt you're going to win this!"

"Oh, Maria, you're always so nice to me," he said, as prim and soft-spoken as a prince. Quatre laughed with her, but also noticed her eyes shifting behind him every once in a while. He made a confused face at her, as if to ask _What's going on?_

Her smile then widened suggestively, not at Quatre but rather, to something behind him. "Friend of yours?" Maria asked, waiting expectantly. Before Quatre could answer dumbly, a warm hand rested itself on his shoulder, causing his heart to leap in shock. He veered around to face the stranger and was immediately drawn into Trowa's bright green stare.

"Oh my g—Trowa!" he nearly yelled into the microphone. The small blonde blushed furiously when Trowa replied to his exclamation with a pleased smile. Trowa had actually expected him to be quite displeased with the change of events, but Quatre was grinning widely, visibly excited. He turned back to Maria with one arm hooked to Trowa's. "Yes, of course, I'm so sorry, Maria. This wonderful man here is my friend and escort, Mr. Trowa Barton. He's come all the way here from New York to accompany me!"

Maria shook Trowa's hand with that familiarly bubbly expression on her face, but the camera caught her hungry eyes stalking him the way many around him were undoubtedly doing.

**xxx**

Grand swaths of blues illuminated the walls of the Kodak Theater as the voices of Helen Mirren and Hugh Laurie filled the venue with their English charms. They played their scripted parts gracefully, eliciting a slew of laughter from the black-tie crowd, until it came to the announcement of the award they were to present. A gargantuan screen behind them rolled scenes from several movies. The minute moment seemed to last forever for Quatre, whose fingers twiddled anxiously. Trowa looked over to him just as Helen Mirren said Shia LaBeouf's name, and offered him a gentle whisper of, "You've already won, love." Quatre was unsure of whether to cry or self-induce a nervous breakdown, but neither seemed as important as repeating Trowa's words in his mind.

Even when Hugh Laurie's peculiarly British pronunciation of his name urged applause from the crowd, Quatre couldn't for the life of him shake himself out of his reeling stupor. It took a nudge from Daniel Day Lewis, to wring the shock out of his system and warp him back to the reality of his victory.

Frantically, but endearingly, Quatre bolted from his seat and ran to the stage, stumbling happily on the congratulatory handshakes his acquaintances and friends sought to offer him. Gratefully, he shook them all briefly and haphazardly, but they sympathized with the genuinely clumsy astonishment.

Breathlessly, he leaned over the podium and began to speak.

"I… I really don't know what to say," he said, clutching his tie nervously. "Tonight, for me, there's really… little room for words to describe just how happy I am. Not just because I won this award, but because this is a good time that we live in, full of hope for change in the future. I hope we all still feel this way. For people like Kat, it was important to hope like this, even though sometimes it seemed impossible. I wanted to take this time and let you all remember that, because in the end, happiness is all that matters."

Quatre, red-faced and grinning ear to ear, waved his Oscar in the air above him. "But this helps somewhat!" The audience burst out in applause and laughter. Quatre laughed but before the cameras were able to cut him off, made a sound of protest. "Wait—wait—I wanted to thank everybody, though, everyone that I worked with. Frank, Bob, Jack, Leo, Dan—I love you all! The film's producers—the makeup, set artists—oh, and Ang, you already know how utterly fantastic you are! And—and—god, I don't even know anymore! Oh, thanks to my friend, who came all the way from New York to see me make a fool out of myself—Trowa! Love you all!"

Duo watched Quatre walk off the stage with the two presenters, mulling over whether it was actually a good idea to have sent Trowa out in the open. During Quatre's speech, they showed his butler's entire face, for fifty million people to see. There could have been a better plan, sure, but all of it involved having to separate him from Quatre.

And that, Duo would not do.

"Sir?" Duo looked up at his driver, who, despite still being mired in the unmoving traffic, did not seem as if he wanted to kill him. "We are here, sir."

"Good, thank you, Gregory," said Duo, placing a stack of bills and an envelope on the seat next to him. "Here's what I owe you. I'll put in a good word for you to the service."

The driver nodded. "Thank you, sir, have a good night."

Duo merely nodded back in response and got out of the limousine. Duo buttoned his suit and surveyed his surroundings before wading through the tall, green shrubbery of a nondescript area on the side of the 5. After twenty minutes or so, Duo arrived to find an unmarked charter plane waiting innocently to be boarded in the middle of the dry Los Angeles plains.

**xxx**

He landed inconspicuously to the edge of Prospect Hill, just outside Oscawana Lake. He remained in the pilot's seat for a while, fiddling with specific buttons and switches until a secret compartment opened up in the co-pilot's seat. He removed a pre-paid Visa card from his wallet and placed it in there, along with other borrowed equipment belonging to the company. He looked at his watch and gauged that it would take at least two hours for him to get back into the city. Sighing, he abandoned the plane and headed towards an icy-black MV Agusta F4 1100 CC, gleaming under moonlight as if guiding Duo towards the right direction.

The cold tore at his lips and eyes as he drove down the parkway back to New York City. His skin felt almost as frosty and hollow as the rest of him at this particular moment, when he could not for the life of him decide whether to feel relieved or anxious. His emotions, as they had been for quite a while now, vacillated almost as mercurially as his thoughts, fading in between the fragrance of Trowa and past and present turmoil. A specter manifested itself above all such thoughts so strongly that it reminded him somewhat of what he'd been born to discover, lose, and spend an eternity trying to resurrect.

Somewhere amidst the desert of his mind, one grain of knowledge stood out, paramount above the rest: _there's no other road than the one before me, and all I can do is keep walking until it ends._ No matter how many prayers for another path are called out; no matter how many sins wash him off his humanity; no matter if there's nothing to be found at the ultimate dead end.

Duo Maxwell had no choice—he never had. That knowledge was perhaps the only solace that kept him alive, if existing as retribution could be considered living.

After surviving the rough hands of Winter for nearly two hours, Duo's resolve strengthened. The city, he knew, had been waiting for him to come back and claim a destiny he'd been awaiting for some time. The city had been waiting to take his life, and it comforted him to know that he wouldn't go down so easily—his stubborn will to fight was the only vestige of will still left inside of him.

Before all that, though, there was one place he had to visit. It was something his soul needed before it was sacrificed to fate. It was something _he_ needed, most of all, just to make it through to the end, whatever that should be.

He dismounted his bike and stood in front of a dark grove that shielded a small church from the cold of night. His mind went blank while his feet led him inside to be showered with a warmth that hadn't been familiar in weeks. It held him like a mother putting her son to rest inside a tiny confessional, the only place he'd felt safe in since the war.

"It's been a while, Father," he remarks, his voice low; serious.

"So it has." Duo didn't realize how unready he was to hear the priest's steady tone; even so short a sentence struck his heart like an arrow from Cupid himself, full of sorrow and pleasure at the same time. "And what blasphemous deeds come tonight from the mouth of the sinnerman?" A hint of a smile. Duo laughed hollowly.

"I commit too many a day to possibly list them all for you tonight, Father, as you well know." The words were heavy and the man behind the opaque netting understood. Duo maintained a pause pregnant with doubt.

"Only confess what you think you must, Duo," He said, guiding the words out of Duo without so much of an unwavering note.

"I am the international black-market arms dealer known as the God of Death," Duo confesses suddenly, void of regret and full of conviction. "I've killed more men in my line of business than I can count. I've felt no remorse for any of the lives I've taken in exchange for money and my reputation."

The priest on the other side of the confessional remained strangely silent, allowing for Duo to continue his confession with bated breath.

"Everything I touch is bound to get hurt in some way. And everything that I love enough to keep near me dies eventually—usually untimely, grisly deaths, all of which replay in my head to the point where I end up doubting my own sanity. I killed the woman I called my mother, and I killed the man I called my father. I killed the ones I called my brothers and sisters. And I killed the man I loved.

"Today, I let go of the only family I've had since I lost everything that ever mattered to me. It's perhaps the best thing I've ever done my entire life, because now he'll be able to live longer than he would have if he'd stayed with me."

Duo became silent after that statement. Time passed like viscous, bittersweet honey; Duo's statements hung like strange fruit between them.

"Father," he said without warning before the priest had a chance to reply. "This may be the last time you'll hear from me. Every day that will pass from now on is a day when I'll be praying for my own death as I fight to keep it. I didn't come here for you to pardon my sins, none of which can be forgiven. I came here because I needed, for a moment, to feel as if I've got something left to live for."

The priest's silence breezed by Duo's soul and the last lingering light of hope dwindled away into his abyss of isolation.

"Then I will pray that you find him, Duo Maxwell,"—a ghostly murmur—"and that in finding him, you unearth the lost salvation of the sinner."

And for _one pierced moment whiter than the rest_, a despair as deep as the ravine to hell was lifted.

**xxx**

When Duo arrived at the steps of his home, he wasn't surprised to find there were detectives staking out his residence. He found it unfortunate that his stalker's preliminary move was to have the city's radar turned on him, but not enough for a search warrant of anything of the sort. It meant that Trowa had indeed removed any necessary information before they could get anything out of him. It was likely that they hadn't even begun interrogating him despite his appearance on national television. But Duo also knew he had a limited amount of time—if, indeed, Trowa was being interrogated at the moment, as soon as his name came out of his butler's lips, they'd be on him like flies to a pile of shit.

Fooling them was almost too easy for him, even with their poorly hidden surveillance cameras surrounding the entrance to his home. Duo was in his home faster than they could point their guns and attention to a young, long-haired actor Duo had sent as a decoy. In a span of less than two minutes, Duo had evaded an eight-man stakeout circus and had entered his own home with the casual confidence of someone who'd just bedded all of the Victoria's Secret models in one go.

Knowing fully the constraints on the situation, however, Duo made his way upstairs to collect the vitals—that is, to pack up the necessities for his inevitable descent into hell. A clean navy suit, a couple black dress shirts, some underwear, and bullet-resistant gear. That should be all, he thought, without even mentally noting the assortment of handguns and rifles he also packed into his favorite black duffel. He left the room intentionally unlocked behind titanium doors as soon as he finished.

When he reached the foot of the stairs, Trowa's voice in his head called out a reminder—_Don't forget the files_—as if the butler had been with him all along. Smiling to himself, he made his way to Trowa's room and sifted from the stacks a bright pink book called _Kitchen_. He held it in his hands, looking almost nostalgic (he remembered he chose the book as a personal joke, recalling the fury on Trowa's face the day Duo called him his 'wife'), but his fingers were busily inputting an entry code into a sensory number pad hidden in the jacket. The print of Magritte's _The Lovers_ slid down from its frame into the wall and revealed a cavity containing only a thin, black laptop. Duo quickly packed it with the rest of his things and prepared to head out.

Outside the window, he saw that they had apprehended his decoy and were about to drive him off to the precinct. The other detectives were busily trying to get back to their surveillance cameras to see if they had missed anything, which they all did, of course. And like all unprepared idiots, Duo mused, they were likely to be unaware of the fact that de-icing trucks had been scheduled to pass through the street in compliance with the neighborhood's (i.e. Duo's) demands. The last thing the detectives saw on their cameras was Duo's Cheshire grin gleaming victory beneath a Giants cap—by the time they rounded the de-icing trucks, all that was left were a set of footprints laughing at the detectives as they led to an empty parking spot where a motorcycle had once been.

**xxx**

Once Duo had safely stashed the motorcycle in one of the many Times Square parking lots, he made his way uptown, cleverly disguised as just another trendy, white Rastafarian. He relished in the few moments he had to himself as he walked out Grand Central and into the busy midtown streets. As he passed by a couple of standby police officers, he heard the directions they were being given—namely to look out for him—but he'd been there, done that. Cop dodging was as natural as breathing to him, yet for some reason, the name _Duo Maxwell _being associated with crime set him on edge. _Yeah, well, no turning back now, remember?_ He told himself.

He joined a throng of tourists heading back into the Waldorf-Astoria for the night and made his way to the elevators without much fuss. His spirit settled down as he approached the room he'd thought he'd never have to go back to again—and yet, here he was, standing in front of it as if expecting someone to open it for him.

It was Duo who opened the door, but somehow fate managed to meet his expectations anyway.

His first reaction was shock, but it was one that didn't survive the journey of expression. Instead, Duo looked back at the man sitting primly on the paisley chaise with wooden eyes. He said nothing as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his eyes locked to the blue staring back at him with suspicious calm. In truth, he was fastidiously deciding what course of action to take (primarily, how he would get the body out); however, the man that had been waiting for him gazed back with such intensity that for a moment Duo forgot his paranoia altogether.

Tsubasa stood up and extended his hand towards Duo, who was careful not to make any sudden movements. Between his fingers was the room's key, somehow still activated. He let his hand drop to his side and the card to the floor as he approached Duo gingerly.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," he said in a low murmur. "Aren't you even a little bit suspicious?"

Tsubasa watched and admired the stormy flashes of emotion in Duo's eyes, interfering his otherwise stony countenance. He brought his hand up to touch Duo's face, but the taller man caught him in his steely grip.

"Who are you?" Duo said.

"I don't know." Tsubasa's arm went limp in Duo's hand; it was a suggestion to Duo that he meant no malice, but Duo was loathe to believe him. "All I know is that I needed to see you again."

Duo could feel his blood boiling. "What do you want from me?" He asked, eyes swimming in vitriol and distrust.

"I need you to tell me who you are," Tsubasa whispers, letting his body fall against Duo's, pushing him back against the door. Duo dropped Tsubasa's hand, which snuck around Duo's waist to hold him in a loose embrace. "There are times that I dream that I've been someone else all this time, as if I hadn't just met you six months ago—as if I've known you all my life."

Tsubasa's arms tightened around Duo, but Duo didn't have the strength to react. His mind and beating heart were trained on Tsubasa's confession, as if it was going to reveal something precious, something Duo has been wanting for as long as he could remember. And the feeling only solidified in Duo's heart as Tsubasa continued a recollection still living in Duo's memory.

"I dreamt of you, Duo, in a desert. Where we were—I don't even know—but I felt so much fear, so much uncertainty. I—I walked around for hours. There was nothing around me but broken buildings and dead bodies, like I had just woken up the night after a slaughter. I became so scared that I ran towards the first sign of light I could see. When I got there, there was only one thing in sight: a body moving beneath dirty sheets, twisting around as if it was dying. I reach out to touch it, but even though I couldn't see what it was, something inside of me made me call out your name.

"And then you turned around, a smile in your eyes, and told me it was okay. You said, _Don't worry, Tsubasa, they'll never touch you as long as I'm around. I'll be here tonight, tomorrow, and the day after. I'll protect you._ And my heart stopped beating. Because I didn't know what to say. Because I believed you. Because I felt the same way."

Duo's initial reaction was to cry, but instead his body bent beneath Tsubasa's smooth, cautious movements that awakened sensations unbeknownst to every muscle and capillary that still found the will to keep him alive—because as far as Duo was concerned, in this one moment, he might as well have died and gone to heaven.

The next morning's cold was almost too much for Duo to bear, although somewhere in the heated tangles of the previous night the thought that _this is just a dream_ lingered just enough to dull the disappointment that hit Duo harder than a bad hangover. His body ached for reassurance that his prayers had been answered, that he'd ended one painful search to begin a happy one—but all that brewed in the silence of the empty hotel room was a terrible feeling that perhaps he had been allowing himself to be tricked.

And when he sat up to survey the mess they'd made of his sanity in a miniscule gamut of time, only to find a cryptic note atop a pillow that still smelled of sweat, sex, and _Boucheron_ cologne, he couldn't help but feel that this was and had always been the case between him and Tsubasa.

_STAY AWAY FROM ROME_

_T_

**Notes**

._. Yes, I've been working intermittently on this, but school has been incredibly taxing on me… plus I'm determined to write this series better and better as it goes along. I haven't given up, I swear, and someday, I hope anyone who started reading this will come back and read the whole thing when it's finally finished. I know it's painful to wait for those of you who have cared enough to read this labor of love of mine… I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will definitely try my best to beat Writer's Block AND college and get this series going! It's not a promise that I'll get it done faster, but it's a promise that I sure haven't forgotten about Duo and all of you. Btw, I'm particularly proud of this chapter, I hope you all will enjoy it despite the lack of bloody action! (With the exception of poor Trowa of course.) Also, I know their separation happened fast, but to clarify: they know someone is following them, and because Trowa's face had already been seen, Duo had to find a way to convince whoever was likely to interrogate Trowa (in this case, he assumes it's the government—and he's right) that his butler was merely a pawn. In order to do this, he arranges for Trowa to be near to Quatre, who would no doubt support him without even asking questions. Both would pretend to know next to nothing about the God of Death, which will put only Duo under any danger or mandate from the government. You're gonna ask why Duo had let such a thing happen even if it could have been avoided, like it had been in the past, where he didn't use Trowa to be his middleman at all. But it'd be a shame to reveal ALL of Duo's motives, now wouldn't it?

Until next time, beautiful people. Also, my undying love and thanks to the following followers:

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Tenshi no Kinsei


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